


the assistant

by trilliananders



Category: Knives Out (2019)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Smut, asshole Ransom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:33:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 53,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22698703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trilliananders/pseuds/trilliananders
Summary: You’ve been working for the Thrombeys for four years now, the last three years of your service being a glorified babysitter to the most annoying, self-absorbed, dickhead Hugh Ransom Drysdale.
Relationships: Ransom Drysdale/Original Female Character(s), Ransom Drysdale/Reader, Ransom Drysdale/You
Comments: 56
Kudos: 472





	1. the assistant

You wanted to smack that dumb smirk off his stupid dumb face. 

Hugh Ransom Drysdale. The bane of your fucking existence. Standing there with that stupid fucking smirk on his face, he fucking loved this. Watching as you cleaned up his mess. A crying girl on his doorstep and you, his assistant (aka babysitter), trying to calm her down enough to get her to leave his house. This dumb contemporary floor to ceiling windowed, minimalist, empty souled house. The girl had been picked up at a bar last night. Charmed by his handsome face, the money he was careless to spend, the way he spoke to you like you were the most beautiful thing in the world. 

It was a fucking joke. A trick. You’ve seen it a million times and you’d be willing you bet that you’d see it a million more. 

The door blocked her view of him, your clear view of him from the side, sipping on a mug of coffee in his hands and fucking smirking. 

“He won’t even see me?” You hated when they cried. Like each of them had this idea that they’d go home with Ransom Drysdale and fuck him so good that he’d tie them to his bed and never let them leave or something. 

You sighed heavily before replying, “Mr. Drysdale has business to attend to, he’s unavailable at the moment, but I can leave him a message if you’d like?” You did this maybe five or six times a week. In the early morning hours, after his sexual escapade and some rest, Ransom would wake early and leave for the gym. In that time you were supposed to ‘take out the trash’ as he described it. This morning, the girl left dazed and confused in the fog taking an uber back to her home, but returning an hour later trying to plead her case. It was giving you a migraine. 

The girl stepped back from the porch, shoes crunching against the gravel as she searched the windows for his face. “FUCK YOU RANSOM.” She shouted, flipping the bird into the air. The man hiding to your right, choked on his coffee in laughter as you watched the girl get back into her car and disappear from sight. 

“What’s on the agenda today Ransom,” You shut the door quietly, turning to face him, “Because if I have to do that again tomorrow I’ll quit.” He scoffed in indignation. 

“You’re not gonna quit,” He drained the rest of his mug, “You can’t even leave the house long as you got that.” He gestured towards your leg. Sitting firmly on your right ankle was a house arrest bracelet. One meant for him, but carefully bribed into being put on your own leg. The stupid son of a bitch got away with murder, after the death of his late Grandfather’s housekeeper by his own hand and the attempted murder of the girl that got the entire Thrombey fortune, he stayed the lucky son of a bitch he had been his entire life. 

Evidence was mishandled, not enough proof. That whole, ‘beyond reasonable doubt’ thing. The rich asshole got fucking house arrest and court mandated therapy. Even after there were three fucking witnesses to him attempting to murder Marta Cabrera. 

Money oiled the gears of the justice system, letting the trust fund baby slip through without consequence. That’s where you come in. 

You worked for the Thrombey’s before. As a tutor to Meg when she began to fail her english class. For whatever reason, Lynda and Richard Drysdale liked you, assigned you a new task. Their sweet baby boy Hugh, called Ransom by everyone but the Help. You’ve worked for Ransom for three years now. The first year before the death of his Grandfather and Thrombey patriarch, and now two years after his death and wouldn’t you know it. Hugh Ransom Drysdale wrote a fucking bestseller. 

Everyone wanted an insight into this family. Harlan Thrombey always said there was so much of him in Ransom. He wasn’t lying. 

Ransom wrote the first of what you knew would be many new Thrombey family murder mystery novels. And he was reaping in the cash. He was two months away from his next big release. Something you’re sure would fly off the shelves just as quickly as the first. 

“Don’t worry,” He said, “I’ve got a deadline to meet.” His coffee mug abandoned by the front door for you to clean up, he left you to officially start your day. He retreated into the study he created for himself to crank out the last four chapters he needed for his book, maybe. 

Due to circumstances beyond your control, you were the one placed on house arrest. As long as no one was notified that Ransom left the perimeter of the house you were being paid well, and you being paid well meant your younger sister gets taken care of. You were able to send her money every month to help with the fact that she was staying with an estranged aunt. It hadn’t been easy once your mother died, but the Thrombey’s lighten the load so to say. 

That’s why you were washing Ransom’s sheets that reeked of sex, picking up and disposing of torn panties and tossing used condoms the fucking dick couldn’t be bothered enough to toss two more feet into the trash can in his on-suite. You’d invested in rubber gloves. 

On days that Ransom had to meet with his probation officer he would wear a dummy bracelet. It got him by and soon the fucker would be over and done with house arrest all together. You’d be able to move back home then. Hopefully. 

“Ransom, you ever gonna eat today?” You knocked on the open door of his study, bringing his attention from his computer to you, who held a bowl of pasta in your one hand. He sighed, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his eyes. There were multicolored post-its surrounding his computer. Your mind made the connection with how similar it was to his Grandfather’s own workspace. You gently placed the bowl on his desk, turning to pour him a tumbler of whiskey from the small bar in the corner of the room. 

“I don’t know how the old bastard ever cranked out two books a year,” His neck cracked. “How is that even possible?” He took a large bite of the pasta, squinting at the screen. His eyes quickly shifted to yours, watching you set down the glass of whiskey in front of him. He grabbed your wrist. “Stay.” It was an order. “Sit.” You took your place in a chair across from him. 

“Harlan wrote every day,” You told him, “You write whenever you’re not off sticking your dick into anything that breathes.” He laughed at that. 

“Not everything that breathes,” He typed a few more words into the word document, “I haven’t fucked you yet.” Your core pulsed, he said yet. 

Audibly you scoffed, “I would never willingly fuck you Ransom.” You pulled your legs up onto the chair to make yourself comfortable. He smirked at that, eyes not leaving the computer screen. 

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” That stupid smirk. You hated that fucking smirk. So condescending. 

When you first met Ransom you were probably very much like the girls that you now pry out of his bed at 8 am. You had been tutoring Meg at the family home, sitting at the kitchen table going over Othello when he sauntered in, digging through the cabinets for snacks. You could feel Meg tense up next to you and that’s when he turned. He was so fucking pretty. Blue eyes, well kept hair, cashmere sweater, those broad fucking shoulders, and on his face, stretching that full bottom lip you wanted to tug between your teeth, was a smirk. 

That pulsing throb between your thighs soon was quickly forgotten as he opened his mouth and began to speak, “How’s it going Meg, trouble reading? Or do they not teach you how to read when you’re a liberal? Lord knows you guys never fucking understand anything anyway.” Meg snapped back at him, but you were stunned. You could tell he said that on purpose, knowing it would make her go off on the tangent he was now, finding a sick pleasure in it. That was the first time you’d seen the smirk. You’d lost count of how many times you’ve seen it since then. 

“I really hate you Ransom.” You sighed, sinking further into your chair. He had almost finished off the bowl of pasta by now, whiskey long since emptied. He thinks it’s funny, you hating him because he responds looking you in your eyes, maintaining his smirk, 

“I know you do baby.” He liked to do that. Call you pet names. Once he had even pretended you were his wife when you accidentally walked in on him and a girl he had been balls deep in, bent over the back of the couch. He fucking LOVED that one. The girl had cried, embarrassed, apologizing as she picked her bra up from the floor and slunk out the front door behind you. That was a while ago. Pre-Murder. You should have seen it then. How insane he actually was. 

Ransom was incredibly smart and was a quick thinker. It was part of the reason that he had gotten away with murder in the first place. You knew that. It showed in his novel. He would have you read chapters, give him your opinion, before writing and rewriting. Showing you again. He’d ask you if you could figure out who was the murderer, a sinister glint in his eyes, arms crossed, standing above you waiting. He could only be satisfied if you didn’t have a clue. 

It was a gift, you supposed, the ease in which he wrote to make every character a possible suspect in completely new and incredible scenarios. He had three books in various states of completion that he was chipping away at, the one he was currently working on seemingly better than the previous published. 

His Mother, the one who gave him the silver spoon and cursed him for having it his whole life, was suddenly proud of him. His Father, now divorced from his Mother, would come by weekly asking for money. Ransom loved that too. His Dad got nothing due to the prenup, leaving him penniless. The cushy job he had at Lynda’s real estate empire was gone, and now Dad was working at local agency scraping by on low commission. Last week his Father came to the door while Ransom was writing and muscled his way not too kindly past you into the house. 

“Ransom!” He called, finding his way into his son’s study. You quietly shut the door, returning to folding laundry. The door shut tightly behind him and sounds had been muffled. It’s only when their voices went from calm to a screaming match did the door wretch open and Ransom followed his Dad out, both red faced. 

“We’ve given you everything in your fucking life and you can’t even give one iota back.” Ransom opened the front door, gesturing to the porch. 

“Get the fuck out, and don’t come back.” His voice stern and commanding.

“Fuck you Ransom.” With that he was gone. The silence that had settled over the house was thick, Ransom’s hand still resting against the closed door before he took a breath and, without taking a glance in your direction, returned to his study. Closing the door. 

The echo of that argument sat in the house for the rest of the day, Ransom leaving soon after to find a body to lose himself in. If the murder trial did anything, it made Ransom into a bad boy and girls fucking loved it. He wasn’t, technically, guilty after all. 

You attempted to clear the bowl in front of him, but was stopped by his hand. His eyes never left the screen as he brought your hand to his lips, placing a kiss in your palm, before dragging your arm to his other shoulder, hugging himself with it awkwardly until you gave in and wrapped your other arm around him, holding him tightly for a moment. 

He was soft sometimes. His Mom never held him when he was a kid. He was left alone a lot while she was building her empire. Babysitters never stayed long, nannies came and went. Sometimes you truly felt bad for him, other times you remember that he was a dick and that he loved to play tricks and torment anyone and everyone that was supposed to take care of him, including you. The only difference was you weren’t able to leave. 

He let you go soon after that, letting you clean up the mess from dinner and stoke the fire place warming the house that always seemed too cold. As you stood by the fire, arms wrapped around yourself you could feel him behind you, coming to wrap his arms around your waist, leaning his head on your shoulder as you stared into the flames. There was a moment or two of silence as you both stood there. 

If this were any other situation, if Ransom loved you, if this was someone who loved you, if this someone cared enough to care about the things you care about, this would be kind of romantic. But it’s Ransom, and he didn’t care about anyone but himself, he definitely didn’t care about you, and he one hundred percent didn’t care about anything you care about. “I’m going out.” 

His arms left your waist and his chest left your back leaving you cold. “For fucks sake Ransom, I don’t feel like throwing out a girl tomorrow morning.” You turned to watch him throwing his coat on. He smirked. He fucking smirked. 

“I’ll give you a break and throw her out myself then.” And he was gone. 

Hours later you’re woken by the sound of Ransom coming home, sure enough he wasn’t alone. Soft giggles and a bang, he’s shoved her against the wall beside your room. There were muffled groans as you assumed she found her knees right there in the hallway. He got off on this shit, you knew. Often stopping somewhere outside your door to start his sexual escapades. Knowing you were mere feet away, like some half-assed exhibitionism. It wasn’t long after that the girl squealed and there was more muffled talking before they moved to his bedroom. To which you shared a wall. 

Your bedroom, before you were a live-in, housed a bunch of items you believed graced a teen boy’s bedroom walls at one point. And still, shoved in the corner, were playboy model cardboard cutouts, “They’re vintage, mint condition, and worth a lot.” Sure, Ransom, sure they are. Arcade games, framed patriots jerseys, a lacrosse set from his high school days. You were shoved in the middle of it all, a single bed shoved against the wall surrounded by what once was a room full of teenage boy memorabilia. A shrine to his youth. 

The headboard soon came knocking and hope for sleep was lost. The girl’s moans escalating to shrieks. Either he was as good as he says, or these girls really care about his ego. Either could be true when there’s more than one comma in your bank account. 

The kitchen was much quieter. A steady rocking still came from upstairs, but thankfully it was muffled by the floor. As you made a cup of tea you figured you would see if he had printed off a new chapter ready for you to read. You hope he wouldn’t have gone out without finishing it anyway. 

You were not sure why you cared to be honest. You had this love/hate for Ransom. He was an annoying prick who did something really fucking horrible, but he also made it very clear to everyone involved that you had nothing to do with it. There was a scary moment there, after his arrest, when you were brought to the station for interrogation. You hadn’t known he had even gotten up to any of these crimes. He kept you completely in the dark and he was sure to let his arresting officers know that. You hadn’t even seen him since the night Harlan died when he left the party stranding you at the estate. 

Money does crazy things to people. The threat of his steady income leaving was enough to push him to do something crazy. He was lucky enough that the recorded confession magically was erased. He was lucky for dirty cops. He was lucky that even though his mother despised his lifestyle she didn’t want him to go to prison. He was so lucky. Now with his first novel sitting highly on the bestseller list, he seemed even more lucky than he did before. 

His study was on the opposite side of the house from his bedroom, muffling the sounds enough for you to flip through the packet left on top of his keyboard. Three chapters away from completion you were following the detective through paces where things felt more confusing than ever, the clues were unclear and there was not much to go on, but the tension between the eldest son of the victim and his ex-wife were mounting and it was hard to believe that maybe this guy had nothing to do with it despite what was described as an ‘air-tight’ alibi. You read through the chapter twice, scribbling your thoughts in red pen along the margins. 

“What do you think?” You jumped in your chair, looking up to see Ransom in the doorway. 

“You scared the shit out of me,” Your hand still clutching your chest. He had a glass of water in his hand, chest bare, solid navy pajama pants slung low on his hips. His chest hair always got you, just a little bit. He tugged his bottom lip between his teeth and pushed off the door jam to walk into the room, taking a seat in the chair you occupied hours ago. “It’s good,” you cleared your throat, “I’m not sure how much longer I can wait for you to finish to be honest.” He chuckled softly. 

“Let me see.” You handed him the packet and his eyes scanned the margins, reading your comments. They were mostly reactions, that’s what he liked. He wanted to know how you reacted to everything he put in front of you, did you like the romance, the tension, the lust he was trying to write between the ex-husband and wife? Or was it too distracting from the plot? Is the detective too unbelievable? He’s a character for sure. Can you figure out whodunnit yet?

“What are you doing out of bed?” You asked, spinning the chair side to side, waiting for him to put the packet down. 

“I told you I was going to kick her out.” He took another sip from his water. You scoffed, 

“And you couldn’t start doing this sooner?” A smile stretched his lips,

“I like how much it bothers you.” 

“It’s annoying,” you said, “Worst way to start my day.” He laughed. 

“That’s the only reason?” He asked, throwing the packet back on the desk, leaning back in his chair. Smirking. 

“You’re such an asshole, you know that?” You pushed back from the desk, moving to exit the room. He quickly grabbed your wrist, tugging you over to his side where he looked up at you, 

“If you wanna take their place, just let me know.” Your other hand came up to smack him on his shoulder, causing him to laugh as he released you, letting you take your exit. 

“Dick.” 

You found him the next morning at his desk, looking as though he had very little sleep. “Babe could you get me some coffee?” You yawned in the doorway, 

“Sure.” It didn’t take long before you were setting the cup in front of him. “Your therapist is coming by at one.” He nodded, not looking up from his computer. “I’ll come get you when it’s time for you to get ready.” 

He was focused. You weren’t sure where this focus came from. It was every once in a while that he would find this stroke of inspiration and write for a whole day straight. Hopefully he will be finished his book before schedule and be able to get ahead for the next one. 

Soon he was washed, dressed, and ready for the one person he dreads the most. He hated therapy sessions. There were only ten more he needed to do before the court mandate was over. Ten more weeks until you were able to get this lovely ankle bracelet off when you would hopefully be able to go back to the routine you had with him before. Where you’d sleep in your own shitty apartment and show up to work a 9 to 9 five days a week. 

After sessions he was always moody, quiet, and tended to need his favorite single malt restocked the next day. Not exactly in line with how he should be tending to whatever revelation the therapist has been streamlining him to, but that wasn’t any of your business. You could say though that during the last 42 weeks of sessions this refractory period was shortening to less and less time, maybe tonight you won’t be peeling him off the floor of the study and dragging him up to his room drunk off his ass. 

While in the session you were trying not to listen in on, you were sunk heavily on the living room couch, drinking coffee and reading the latest chapter he had slapped into your hands before entering back into his study. The book was so close to being finished, the last two chapters leading you to the big reveal and aftermath. The climax was steady taking hold and you were more sure than ever that the eldest son had something to do with it. You didn’t know what he did, but it was something. 

He looked mad enough to kill as the Doctor left. Slamming the door, barely missing the Doctor’s jacket sleeve as he made his hasty retreat. Ransom stood seething for a moment by the front door, a chill running down your spine. He had murdered someone before, something you try to forget seeing as you are forced to spend so much time with him. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. It felt like an hour before he moved. 

“I’m going out.” The words spoken sternly as he stomped his way up the stairs like a petulant child, returning moments later, cleaned up, eyes blank, before grabbing his coat and slamming the door loud enough to make you jump. 

Aside from Ransom’s Mother never being around and aside from his Father’s string of extramarital affairs and aside from his Grandfather’s need to push him in every direction but close, you wish you could say that Ransom had a good childhood. But he didn’t. When he was little the kids picked on him for being rich, and when he was bigger they only became friends with him because he was rich. He was such a bully. At least, that’s what his Mother told you once drunk off chardonnay at his birthday dinner last year. 

Disappointment. 

That was a clear sentiment for the small family get together, and by small family get together you meant the dinner you cooked and Ransom looking like he’d rather be in prison than listen to his parents bicker over his Father’s new (Not so new seeing as he’d been caught kissing her by a PI before Harlan’s death) girlfriend. She was smart enough not to come. 

This night was looking a lot like that one. Ransom, after his parents left and you began to tidy up, began to scream at you. 

“What gave you the fucking right you dumb bitch?” He was spitting, face red as you cleared the dishes. “You’re only here for the money. The fucking money. How much is she paying you huh?” The bottle of expensive whiskey he had been drinking throughout the night was in his hand, swinging it around and taking pulls straight from the bottle. “Not enough obviously because you would have let me fuck you a long time ago.” 

Your face flushed red as your own anger began to rise. He continued, “Never, ever, fucking again will you allow my parents in this house, do you understand me?” His unoccupied hand grabbed your arm tight enough to bruise, turning you to face him. His eyes wild and unfocused. “I said do you understand me?” You not so gently wretched your arm from his. 

“Don’t touch me.” He always fucking did this. Blamed you for things you had no control over. Lynda approached you about a dinner for Ransom’s birthday. It was her name in your paystubs. You can’t say no. 

“How dare you-” He began, but was cut short.

“No Ransom. No.” Like scolding a fucking dog who put his paws on the table. You threw the bowl you currently had in your hands into the sink, turning to fully face him. “I am only here for the money and I am only here because your Mother pays me a lot to be here.” His jaw clenched. “But I’m also here because I’m the only fucking person who even remotely cares about your ungrateful prissy spoiled ass and if it wasn’t for me you’d be sitting in this fucking glass house, alone, with only your own self-righteous attitude to keep you company. So don’t you ever touch me like that again. Do you understand?” 

He loudly clunked the bottle onto the kitchen island, stumbling in your direction as you backed yourself into the sink. His trial had just concluded two weeks ago, Fran’s murder fresh on your mind and you wondered if you just made a terrible mistake. Over the course of this rant, the alcohol was sinking into his bloodstream, it turned his anger into a crippling depression. One that resulted in his hands softly grasping your shoulders, and tugging you into his body. His face found your neck and slowly started to grow damp with what you realized were his tears. 

Your heart broke a bit, too much empathy, even for this asshole. Your arms came to wrap around his shoulders, letting him cry it out. 

That was the first and only time you saw Ransom cry over anything. If he hadn’t been as drunk as he was you knew that moment would never have happened. The sweet little moment that made your heart ache was quickly gone the next morning when Ransom made you coffee and thought it would be hilarious that after you thanked him for being so sweet he joked that he poisoned it. You could still recall the cackles of laughter as you spit your coffee into the sink. 

That was the day he began writing his first novel. 

He came home alone tonight which was strange. And far earlier than normal. You usually were in bed, or holed up in his study by the time he arrived him after a night out. Staying out of his way as he drug a bubbly hopeful girl up to his bed to satisfy his own needs for the night. He found you tonight, sitting outside, watching Netflix on your tablet by the firepit you had decided to light, a hot cup of tea sitting on the end table next to you. Cozy and wrapped in a blanket. 

You could feel his eyes on you from the doorway. You tapped the screen, pausing your show and turned to look at him. His hair was slightly mussed, face flushed, and socked toes curling from the chill. He was looking at you strangely. 

“You’re home early.” You placed the tablet down on the end table, turning to face him. He nodded, crossing his arms and leaning against the door jam. 

“I just needed a drive.” There was a soft smile on his face, well that’s new. 

“Is everything okay?” He never tells you anything, but the sentiment matters. He looked to his feet, nodding. 

“I’m probably going to try to stay up and finish the book tonight.” He shifted himself back into the house, your voice calling out to him, 

“Come sit out here for a bit. It’s calming, just take a break from thinking for a minute.” He sighed and looked at you again, debating something in his head. 

“I need to be alone.” You tried anyway. He disappeared from sight. And that was that. 

The next day Ransom began acting even more strangely. The book was finished, the last two chapters handed wordlessly to you as he left for the gym on what you’re assuming was no sleep. That wasn’t the strange part. The strange part was when he returned three hours later bearing a box of donuts from your favorite bakery and two lattes, on his face was a smile. 

“What did you do?” You accused, “Did you poison this?” You gestured towards the latte he placed in your hand. 

“No.” He laughed, sliding the box of donuts to you. You stared at him skeptically before taking a sip. Tastes normal. 

“Are you sick?” Your wrist coming to lay across his forehead, temperature feels fine. 

“No.” He laughed again, pulling your wrist from his forehead and kissing your palm before opening the box of donuts, pulling a cinnamon sugar donut to his lips. “You just told me the other day how you missed these and I figured since I passed the shop on the way back it wouldn’t hurt to go pick some up.” It was suspicious. You continued to look at him skeptically. He sighed, placing the donut on the counter, grabbing the latte from your hand he took a large sip of it. “I didn’t fucking poison you Y/N.” 

Okay.

Okay. You examined the box of donuts, pulling out the bear claw that was begging to be eaten. Still warm. You moaned in delight as soon as the warm pastry hit your taste buds. You really had missed these. Opening your eyes, you saw Ransom staring blankly at you before his eyes shifted to the packet by your side. 

“All finished?” You swallowed and nodded, sliding the packet marked with red over to him and as he began to study your notes you tried to think about what could have possibly gotten him in such a good mood. The Doctor’s visit was odd enough. Yes he was angry when the Doctor left, but then just a drive? Not a blackout drunk, bringing two girls home to pleasure himself with and accidentally falling into a line or two of coke night, but a drive? 

Maybe therapy had been working? Maybe he had a breakthrough? He finished the novel. The eldest son had something to do with it, his airtight alibi just that, a cover for the crime having been committed at a different time than the coroner’s estimated time frame due to him freezing the body and allowing it to thaw in the house. 

You had asked Harlan how he came up with such incredible stories once. He said they just popped into his head fully formed, his brain moving faster than his fingers. He kept a little notebook with good ideas and would simmer in them as long as it took for a stroke of inspiration. The rest was just typing. 

He smirked at some of your comments, ‘what a fucking joke’ you wrote next to the eldest son’s monologue about being passed over, his whining, annoying, self centered crying about how life wasn’t fair. 

“What’s the smirk for?” You asked, removing the lid of your latte and dipping part of the bear claw in it. 

“The lack of sympathy for Greg.” You scoffed and rolled your eyes. 

“He’s a fucking loser.” Ransom’s eyes met yours, “I bet you see a lot of yourself in him.” That made him laugh. 

“What? You don’t like spoiled rich men?” He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms in front of his chest. You rolled your eyes, taking another sip from the milky sweet latte you didn’t know would feel like your life’s blood right now. 

“I think you know the answer to that.” 

“I think you find me endearing.” Ransom smirked. Your neck flushed. 

“I find you annoying,” You admitted. “I only put up with you because of my paycheck.” He licked his lips.

“Sure,” He closed the packet, pushing it aside to take another bite of the donut, cinnamon sugar dusting his lips. “You put up with me because you’re secretly in love with me, but you know that I would never get with The Help.” This made you laugh. 

“If you want me to be the Help I’ll gladly call you Hugh if it means you leave me alone.” He placed his paper cup on the counter, circling around to you. 

“I like when you call me Hugh.” His hands came to rest on your upper arms, grinning. 

“You’re disgusting.” He laughed at the clear displeasure on your face, spinning your stool around to him, and you leaned back, creating some distance as he came to stand between your legs. 

“You don’t mean that do you baby?” His fingers toying with the ends of your hair. You could feel your nipples harden in excitement, body betraying you. A wet growing between your legs. 

“Ransom what are you doing?” You said in exasperation. You weren’t blind. Ransom was gorgeous. You’d maybe, possibly, gotten off to the thought of him once or twice or maybe more than that in the four years you’ve known him. But he was also a scumbag who fucks and then throws girls out hours later. His moods were hot and cold. He had major Mommy issues and he’s not technically guilty of murder, but he’s a fucking murderer. But also… he’s been going to therapy and after that fight on his birthday last year he’s never laid a hand on you in anger again, there’s been some arguments sure, but he’s mostly nice to you. Caring even. 

“Why don’t you love me Y/N?” His voice almost came out as a whine. He was playing with you. 

“Ransom stop.” You pushed him away gently. He was fucking smirking. 

“Usually there’s a ‘don’t’ in front of that.” Cocky bastard. 

“You’re the worst person I know. And I hate that fucking smirk.” You picked at your now cold bear claw, trying to turn from him. 

“Why don’t you wipe it off my face then?” Your eyes met his and you glared. 

“What’s gotten into you today? Maybe you should go out early. Find some girl to satisfy whatever you’re going through right now.” His hands met your hips, spinning your stool back around to face him. 

“What if I want you to satisfy whatever I’m going through right now.” His groin fit right up against your core and you could feel his throbbing heat between your legs. Fuck. 

“Don’t make this mistake Ransom.” You placed one hand gently on his chest, attempting (but not really) to push him back. His forehead coming to rest against yours. “You don’t want this.”

“This is the only thing I’ve ever really wanted.” His breath mingled with yours, sweet, cinnamon and coffee. 

“You’re not thinking straight.” His lips brushed against yours, tongue coming out to wet his lips, his eyes locked with yours. Why weren’t you pushing him away? Your breath hitched as his tongue accidentally grazed your bottom lip. 

“The only clarity I’ve ever had in my life has been when I’m with you.”

His lips pressed heavily against yours, pushing you back against your bedroom door as his hand came to tangle in your hair. He was all consuming, body hot and heavy against yours. Your core was thrumming with want, moisture pooling in the crotch of your yoga pants. His hips were rolling into yours and you could feel the hard length of him against your belly. His lips quickly moved across your jaw to your neck and you could hear yourself moaning softly as he licked, sucked, and nibbled on the sensitive skin below your ear. Your hands clenching the soft material of the t-shirt by his hips, dipping your fingers slowly into the waistband of his shorts. 

His lips parted from your neck, hand tilting your head back so he could look into your eyes before taking your mouth once more. His mouth moved down this time to the tops of your breasts, hands leaving to shift the thick wool cardigan off your shoulders and onto the floor before dropping the straps of your camisole and exposing them to the air, nipples already pebbled in excitement. 

You hadn’t dated in a while, unable to because of your paid house arrest and before that the way Ransom had worked you to the bone picking up after him. And the touch from someone else always felt better than your own. His hands felt huge on you, protecting. 

Your head met the door as he enveloped your right nipple in his mouth, rolling the sensitive bud on his tongue until he felt the left neglected, and switched, beginning to toy with your right nipple between his finger tips. Moans and heavy breaths were the only sounds in the hallway as Ransom made his way down your body, slipping your yoga pants and panties off your hips as he found his knees before you. 

“Ransom-” 

“Shhhhh,” He pressed his lips against your naval, working his way to your trembling core. His hand lifted your right thigh, draping it over his shoulder as his eyes focused in on your, what you knew must be soaking, wet pussy. His eyes met yours from his knees, your legs trembling with anticipation, eyes locked as his pink tongue came to meet your pussy for the first time, a shuddering breath being released from you urged him on further. 

His thick fingers spread your lips open, exposing your clit to his gentle assault. A building pleasure in your core as his tongue began to skillfully work, pulling moans from your mouth. How was he so good at this? Experimenting with different strokes, different pressure, finding what you like. 

“Just like that, oh my god.” He rolled his tongue against your clit, eyes finding yours once more, keeping pace. You could see the corner of his mouth pull up in a smirk as he began to work you up to climax. “You’re such a fucking asshole, I hate that fucking smirk.” Head hitting back against the door as he used his fingers to tease your opening. “Oh my god.” Your hips bucked against his face, causing him to use the arm currently wrapped around your thigh to splay open on your abdomen, holding your hips still. The wet noises and soft grunts from the man between your thighs only caused you to grow closer to your release. 

“You taste so fucking good baby,” moaned between your thighs. 

“Don’t fucking stop.” You scolded. So close. So fucking close. He obeyed, continuing his assault on your dripping pussy, fingers entering your tight channel to stroke against your sensitive walls. He buried his face further into your pussy, nose coming to rest in the soft curls there as he watched you come undone. Your moans escalating in volume as you felt your body tighten with pleasure, hips begging to buck against his face as he rode you through it. He continued to lick and suck on your clit until your hands found his head, pushing him away, legs shaking as you dropped against the door, knees coming to rest around his body. 

That fucking smirk, “How was that?” He asked, face glistening with your cum. 

“Fuck you Ransom.” And he fucking laughed the bastard. What a fucking dick. He brought his face back to yours, gently claiming your lips. The tang of your pussy ever present as you felt him consume you. Your heart was still racing as he picked you up from the floor, bringing you into his bedroom and ever so gently laying you down on the sheets you had just changed two hours ago. 

His eyes were shifting between yours, a strange expression on his face. 

“You can’t kick me out tomorrow Ransom,” Your breathing was heavy as he began to work at your neck, his hands going to remove his gym shorts. “I can’t leave.” He pressed his lips back to yours as you felt him rub the tip of his dick against your clit, your body shaking with over-stimulation. It felt so intimate. Before, his eyes on yours as he brought you over with his tongue and now as he slowly enters you, stretching your walls with his thick cock, eyes not breaking contact he sighs,

“I think you’re the only person I’ve ever loved.”


	2. four christmases

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You’ve been working for the Thrombeys for four years now, the last three years of your service being a glorified babysitter to the most annoying, self-absorbed, dickhead Hugh Ransom Drysdale. These are the four Christmases you’ve spent with the Thrombey/Drysdale clan during your times of service.

2018

What a fucking asshole. 

“You have to be there, it’s your job.” Ransom huffed indignantly. You rolled your eyes from the passenger seat of his beamer, tablet open in your lap as you scrolled through your sister’s amazon wishlist. 

“I have a family too Ransom. I can’t just abandon my own family on Christmas just because you can’t get along with yours.” His knuckles turned white against the gear shift. Nothing else mattered, only him it seemed, and his whining Mommy complex. 

“You were hired to assist me,” Ransom pulled into the drive of his house, tires crunching on the gavel, “So assist.” What a fucking tool. He quickly exited the car not looking behind him to see if you were following into the house, but leaving the front door wide open with the expectation that you were coming right behind. 

You had just hopped onto this assistant gig a few months ago. There you were minding your own business as fall began, working for a temp agency, when Linda Drysdale rang you up and asked you to come work for the family again. You had recently been tutoring one of the youngest of the clan, Meg, with her English coursework for her last school year. The pay was good and you were kind of let down when they opted not to keep you on after summer concluded. 

Babysitting Ransom paid well, better than it had been to help Meg out, but was it really worth the price? Ransom was a fucking child. You cooked his meals, washed his laundry, and were forced to tail him as he went about whatever business he deemed worthy of his days. Just until 9 pm, that’s all you had to do. Twelve hours a day, five days a week. Off Sundays and Mondays. 

It felt like too much and not worth the paycheck. Even if the trust-fund asshole spent his days flirting around from one party to the next. More often than not he found himself a body to bring home leaving you to get an uber back to his place just so you could get your car to go home, or worse yet having you sit awkwardly in the backseat of the car as whoever was in the passenger seat desperately tried to give him road head. 

He loved it. You know he did. Eyes flitting to yours in the rear-view mirror as a girl ten years younger than him fumbled with his belt. A fucking smirk on his face. You wanted to punch him, but your sister’s private school tuition held you back. 

You followed him into the house, one you had just spent the entire morning cleaning as Ransom slept off his hangover. The prick had dropped his coat on the floor adjacent to the coat hook, shoes haphazardly kicked off beside it, glaring at him as you picked them up while he drank orange juice straight from the carton. 

“I’ll pay you time and a half if you come.” He bartered. 

“You don’t pay me anything,” You scoffed. “Your Mom pays me.” 

“Exactly.” He tossed the carton back in the fridge, coming around the counter to get closer to you. He dropped his voice in what he probably thought was a seductive whisper. The fire it lit in your core would lead you to believe that it actually was a seductive whisper and you just fucking hated him. “I’ll make it worth your while.” He drug a finger down your cheek softly. It only caused you to roll your eyes, batting his finger away and stripping yourself of your coat you turned back to him, 

“I want triple.” 

Your sister was going to be pissed, but she’ll survive once she realizes you were able to get her a new laptop for school. A compromise. 

She cried. 

The Thrombey’s were probably the worst people you’ve ever met in your entire life. Harlan was prideful, pompous. He cared about his family, to an extent. He created them after all, his monsters. 

Linda was okay, but she was a lot like her father. She felt as though she was better than everyone else simply because she ‘built herself from the ground up’ yeah, if the ground was a million dollars gifted from Daddy. Her husband, Richard, was a glorified sugar baby, you were sure at one point he was a real estate broker, but Linda had the business, he just rode on her coattails. 

Walt was a whiny bastard. He was meek. He walked around with a cane and you weren’t sure he even needed it. It could totally be a ploy to try and gain more sympathy from his father. His wife was a drunk, you couldn’t remember her name, but it didn’t matter because she wouldn’t talk to you anyway. You can’t talk if you always have your mouth wrapped around the lip of a martini glass. Their son, Jacob, was a little alt-right shit. Every comment that came out of his mouth was a dig on some less privileged 99% and if you didn’t need this job you’d shove his head in the toilet yourself.

That leads you to Joni and Meg. Joni and Ransom had both been given an allowance every month. That’s the way they were mostly the same. How they differed was that Joni was at least attempting to have some sort of entrepreneur business where she gained some income, but not enough to live the lifestyle she was accustomed to. She had Meg in this expensive ass private school that cost more than your salary a month and Meg found this group of liberal women and now she was becoming the extreme opposite of Jacob. They often bumped heads, with Meg slowly giving in. She always gave in. This was her family and as much as she wanted to fight for the 99% she never actually wanted to be one. 

But it was fine. 

It didn’t really matter. 

You just wanted to go home. 

Ransom hasn’t had an empty hand all day thanks to you. “If I’m ever without a drink,” He said on the way over, “You’re walking home.” So this is where you’re standing, with Marta and Fran, you sipping on a weak mimosa that Marta had compromised on, waiting for the day to be over. 

Ransom’s eyes met yours from across the room, hand raising his glass, the last little mouthful swishing against its side. You sighed and rolled your eyes, turning to grab the decanter behind you, walking over to fill his glass. “So I told him to shove it up his ass,” Linda was telling Harlan a story, “If you think for one moment I would give in to anything less than market price you’re out of your mind.” Please love me, she was saying, please see that I’m the best child you have. Harlan’s eyes were dazed, not looking at hers. Thinking. He was always thinking. 

The only time Ransom didn’t need you was when he disappeared into his Grandfather’s office. Presents were handed out just before, new iphones, apple watches, macbooks, cartier bracelets, rolexes, a couple of little bonus checks to their allowances, the spirit of Christmas was definitely lost on this family. 

It doesn’t matter. 

You had just filled Ransom’s glass before he entered the study and you knew he wouldn’t need you until some kind of argument broke out with his Grandfather and you had to be ready to leave the house at a moment’s notice. 

“How’s it goin’ kid?” Richard always kind of made you uncomfortable. He seemed normal, but you were uncomfortable in a ‘this is a rich older white man who liked to corner you alone’ kind of way. For the most part he’s been harmless. 

One time, this was early on when you first started to tutor Meg, he found you in a similar way. Alone, in the kitchen. This was one of the first times he had met you and he was sure to let you know, “You’ve got a really pretty face, you know that?” Ew. Thanks? He had gotten close, too close. “How’d a pretty girl like you end up as a tutor?” That’s worse. And cheesy. This looked like one of those times, except he’d been drinking since 8 am. 

“I’m fine thanks.” You had been trying to find a minute of peace. There was always someone talking in this house, during ‘debates’ there were usually three or four. This was supposed to be a break. Ransom having been passed off to another wet nurse he could suck off of while you got some rest, and maybe sneak a couple of those expensive chocolate artisanal cookies for good measure. Richard grinned at you, not in the way Ransom would when he was fucking with you, but something more predatory. He was feeling ambitious. 

“I just wanted to give you this,” He slipped an envelope across the counter to you, hand resting on it, waiting for you to take it. As your hand met the envelope, he did the fucking worst thing he could possibly do in this moment, and took your hand. Your heart was racing and you felt wildly uncomfortable. He held your hand, taking a step into your space, body crowding yours against the counter. You stared him down, please just let me go. Please just fucking let me go. “How’s my son treating you?” He asked. What exactly did he think you were doing for his son?

“Fine.” You swallowed harshly. Please just let me go. You could smell the whiskey on his breath, face coming closer to yours. 

“If you ever need anything…” Closer and closer. You wished you could pull back completely, get out of this situation, but the vice grip he currently had on your hand was making it difficult. 

“Y/N.” Your eyes snapped over to the doorway, Ransom. His jaw was clenched, face flushed from what you were sure was an argument with Harlan. “We’re leaving.” Richard turned and smiled at his son, releasing your hand. You quietly slipped the envelope into your jeans pocket, backing yourself away from him, and joining Ransom across the room where his eyes hadn’t yet left his father. It wasn’t until you made it to the front door, grabbing your coat from the coat rack did he stomp his way out of the house, digging his car keys from his pockets. 

“Ransom I don’t think you should be driving-” You started, but he turned to you, eyes wild. This scared you. 

“Get in the car.” He demanded. Fuck, he’s drunk.

“Ransom you’re drunk, you can’t drive right now.” His eyes looked behind you and you turned to look at his family, peeking out through the curtains to watch the show. He quickly grabbed your arm, tugging you to the passenger seat, wrenching the door open and shoving you in, slamming the door behind you to circle around to the drivers side. “Just let me drive.” You pleaded. He slammed his own car door, revving the engine and quickly whipping the car out of the driveway. 

He wasn’t saying anything and Ransom always had something to say. 

“Ransom-”

“Shut the fuck up.” His knuckles were white against the wheel, eyes staring straight ahead as he began gaining speed. 

60 mph,

65 mph,

70…

“Slow down!” He was scaring you, these roads were winding and dark, his high beams only did so much and you weren’t sure how many deer you’d be seeing tonight. His foot was heavy on the accelerator. 

75

80

85

“Ransom please!” You cried. His breathing was heavy. His eyes were moving wildly left to right as he moved the wheel to turn.

90

95

100

You were going to die. This was it, this was the end. The car hit the open road, the interstate, and to the left of the on ramp you had just flew through was a cop. Their lights started flashing, red and blue filling the car as Ransom kept accelerating. It wasn’t late at night, probably around nine or so. There were other cars here as Ransom kept gaining speed, swerving in and out of traffic. “You’ve got to pull over!” You yelled at him.

105

110

115

“Ransom for the love of god, fucking stop!” His eyes looked in the rearview, two cops now. It was then he began to slow down, moving over to the side of the road, your heart still racing in your chest. You relax your fingers which you didn’t even realize was gripping Ransom’s bicep in a steel grip. Both of you breathing heavily inside the car. It wasn’t until the cop heavily banged on the window that either of you even moved. 

“Sir, I’m gonna have to ask you to step out of the vehicle.” A bright flashlight in your face as you dug around for his registration and insurance in the glove box. Exiting the car and circling to the trunk as Ransom was handing the four cops bills from his money clip. Why the fuck did Ransom have a money clip full of hundreds? Ransom’s eyes met yours as he stuffed his money clip back in his coat pocket before tossing you the keys which you caught awkwardly. 

“Take me home.” 

You looked over at the cops who were getting back in their squad cars before quietly getting in the driver’s seat and shutting the door. Your heart was still pounding and as the adrenaline began wearing off you suddenly grew very tired. 

“Drive.” You didn’t want to hear his voice. You never wanted to see his face again. You never even wanted to hear his name again. 

“You’re the fucking worst.” You could feel yourself crying. That was the most terrifying experience you’ve ever had in your life. 

“Well you’re fucking my father so,” He sunk down in his seat. “I think I have some competition.”

“I’m not fucking your father!” You exclaimed, hand hitting the steering wheel. You hear him scoff from the passenger seat.

“Not today since I walked in on you. Which is funny, you put on this whole show about not wanting to be around my family and what was it all for? A fucking ploy so I didn’t know.” Ransom didn’t fucking know how much of a goddamn idiot he was being right now. 

As the gravel crunched beneath the tires of the beamer, your argument continued. “I’m not fucking your father, I’ve never fucked your father, and I never will fuck your father.” He wasn’t hearing you. 

“Is this why Linda pays you so much?” He scoffed, exiting the car. He looked at you from over the roof and continued, “So you keep Richard out of her bed?” You hadn’t stopped crying. Still half going from fear and the other half from frustration. It was so goddamn cold out that the tears were freezing against your cheeks. 

“Ransom, I am not fucking your father!” You yelled, “The reason she pays me what she does is because the exact fucking thing you’re doing right now.” He rolled his eyes, walking up to the front door of his house, 

“Give me my keys.” 

“No.” You were still standing by the car, keys fisted in your hand. “You’re being a fucking asshole right now.” 

He clenched his fist, slamming it into the front door before turning back to you and yelling, “Give me my fucking keys Y/N.” You both looked at one another for a moment. 

You took a deep breath. “I have nothing to do with your father Ransom. My only job is to wait on you like a fucking servant and that is what I get paid to do. Not be your fucking punching bag when your family turns out to be a bunch of dicks-”

“Give me-”

“I’m not finished!” You screamed. Tears were still streaming heavily down your face and Ransom stood five feet away from you awkwardly letting you continue. “I don’t deserve this Ransom. I really fucking don’t. You literally almost just fucking killed me. So you’re going to say you’re sorry, you’re going to go into your fucking house, you’re going to give me what you promised me for even having to deal with this shit tonight, and you’re going to give me the rest of the week off.” 

It was silent for a moment. The two of you standing in the cold Massachusetts air in silence. Your face was starting to burn and as the silence stretched on you began to doubt everything you just said. Fuck this could cost you the job. The envelope Richard had handed you weighed heavily in your pocket. Hopefully it would be enough to hold you over until you could get back to the temp agency. 

Ransom let out a breath he had been holding, turning fully to you, and walking down the two steps of his porch. You flinched back away from him, looking at his knuckles that were split and bleeding from punching the door. His eyes met yours and he looked like he was debating something. 

“I’m sorry.” His words were soft and whispered, hand coming forward with an open palm, waiting for his keys. You gently gave them back to him. That soft, whispered, ‘I’m sorry’ stunned you. You didn’t expect your yelling to actually work. You expected to be fired. His keys jingled as he reached in his pocket and brought that money clip back out, extracting a bundle of hundreds and holding them out to you between two fingers. “Go home.” 

That was never spoken of again. The thing with Richard in the kitchen, being pulled over on 95, the screaming match that ensued, and nothing was ever said about the solid gold, $6,500 cartier bracelet that was by no doubt wrapped at the store that was waiting for you when you arrived back at work five days later. 

2019

“What did he do?” You were sweating. It was so fucking hot in here, but you were afraid to take off your coat. The fanfare in which the detectives had pulled up to your apartment complex was embarrassing, quickly bringing you down to the police station and shoving you in an interrogation room. 

“What did who do?” The man who had introduced himself as Lieutenant Elliot asked you. Shit. What the fuck did Ransom do? The death of Harlan Thrombey was sudden, right after his birthday just two weeks ago. It was unsettling, the suicide. The funeral was uncomfortable to say the least. Ransom told you to go and then didn’t go himself so you stood there like some weird interloper on the tails of everyone’s grief. 

You were going to throw up, you’ve never so much as gotten a speeding ticket but suddenly you had a kilo of coke on you and an unlicensed gun. “Where were you the night Harlan Thrombey committed suicide?” You picked at your fingernails. 

“I was at the party,” Your throat was so dry, you were afraid to touch the glass of water they had set before you, “I always feel strange around the family so unless Ransom needs me I try to hide out in the kitchen.” 

“You’re his assistant?” Elliot asked, “He doesn’t have a job, so what exactly do you assist with?”

“I’m pretty much his babysitter.” You explained, “I make sure he doesn’t get into too much trouble…” It’s ironic right? You bit your bottom lip. “Why am I here exactly?” The other man in the room, Wagner, spoke up, 

“Hugh Drysdale has been arrested in the murder of Harlan Thrombey’s housekeeper.” Elliot gave him a dirty look. 

“Fran’s dead?” The shock was evident on your face. You leaned back in the uncomfortable metal chair, discarding your coat and scarf and taking a large mouthful of water. 

“You seemed surprisingly absent from Hugh’s side throughout the aftermath of Harlan’s suicide, why is that?” The third man spoke up from his spot sitting in the corner of the room, the thick southern accent was almost comical. 

“Ransom gave me time off,” You recalled, voice trailing off as you finish your sentence, “He said I could go to my sister’s cello recital…” Did he really kill her? “Why would he kill Fran?” It made no sense. “I mean, he’s an asshole, but murder?”

They played a recording. Ransom in his own, self-righteous, pompous voice. Fuck me. What a fucking idiot. “So tell us where you were on the dates in question, spare no details.”

You had thought it strange, Ransom had left you stranded at the Thrombey house and you were forced to find your own way back to his house to get your car. It wasn’t at all strange that when you got to his house his car wasn’t there. You’d just assumed he’d gone out. It wasn’t uncommon for him to go out after finding arguments with his family. But the next day when he suggested that you take the week off, spend time with your sister, go to that recital you didn’t know he knew about, you checked his forehead with your wrist.

“Are you sick?” You had asked. He gently pushed your wrist off of his forehead, giving you a terse look. 

“Harlan committed suicide last night, the funeral is tomorrow, but after that you should take some time. I need some time.” Your heart broke a bit. Yeah Ransom and Harlan butt heads all the time, but they were practically the same person so it made sense to you that they would fight. Both prideful assholes. 

“I’m so sorry Ransom.” Should you hug him? You didn’t know. You two didn’t have any physical contact really. You’d never seen him hug anyone. So no, no hugs. “Is there anything I can do for you?” You opted to just gently lay your hand on his wrist. His eyes met yours for a moment, silence. 

“Just come to the funeral.” With that he stood up and walked away. 

That’s why it was so off-putting when the bastard didn’t even show up to the funeral and as you stood there with his sobbing family you figured next time you saw him you were going to spit in his coffee. 

“I haven’t seen him since the day before the funeral.” You admitted to the officers. “He asked me to go, and didn’t even show up.” 

“If we have any other questions we’ll let you know.” And you were released from questioning, but you had so many questions yourself. Arson? Fran? He attempted to murder Marta. Was this worth it? The fucking asshole never had to work for anything in his life, and even now as you stood in the courtroom waiting to see what bail would be set as so you could relay to Linda, you wanted to smack his pretty little face for being such a fucking idiot. 

A bailiff read out the case number and in walked Ransom. You’d never seen him in any outfit that cost less than your rent and here the bastard was, walking in with a black and white striped jumpsuit, the county jail logo stamped in red on the back. You were the only person that showed up for him. Linda was half waiting for you to text her a dollar amount so she could pay his bail, the other half of her was debating on whether to leave him there or not. At least, that’s what she told you anyway. 

You could only imagine what you looked like to him. Your eyes were puffy and red from just crying in the parking lot for an hour in between getting questioned and coming to his hearing. Before that the detectives had taken you practically from your bed. But you were here, in yoga pants and a sweatshirt, coat pulled over the ratty thing, and snow boots on your feet. It started snowing this morning. 

His eyes caught yours as soon as he entered, but he quickly looked away. It was like a goddamn movie, his wrists cuffed to his waist, a chain leading down to the cuffs around his ankles. 

Ransom Drysdale murdered someone. 

A chill went down your spine, “Bail set at a million dollars.” And a gavel. Cameras clicking behind you. Thirty minutes later you were waiting for his release. You handed a dry cleaning bag with clothes to the officer at the front desk. 

Ransom Drysdale murdered someone. 

It wasn’t long before the secure, thick, metal door behind the metal detectors opened and Ransom was walking through it back to you. He wouldn’t meet your eyes, quickly circling to the desk to get his phone, wallet, and keys back. The garment bag was shoved back in your hands containing the clothes he was wearing when he was arrested, and then he was out the doors of the county jail, speed walking to your car. His was taken in as evidence. 

You used your key fob to unlock the car, Ransom wordlessly climbing in the passenger seat and slamming the door behind him as you settled in the driver’s. This was uncomfortable. You drove in silence for a minute, awkwardly leaning over to turn on the radio. The song only played for a second before Ransom leaned over, smacking the button to turn it off again. 

“Just say it.” He spat out at you. Your hands gripped the steering wheel tightly. 

“Say what, Ransom?” You were scared of him now and he could tell. He breathed harshly through his nose. You could feel his eyes on you. 

“Aren’t you going to ask me if I did it? Why I did it? Yell at me for being a fucking idiot?” He threw his hands up in frustration. There was a beat of silence more, “Say something.” 

“I don’t know what to say!” You really didn’t. What do you even say? You’ve been cursing him for a while. In your head. Cursing him since you left the interrogation earlier. You didn’t know what any of this meant for your job, if you’ll be able to keep your sister in school, if you’ll be able to even afford the apartment you two live in right now. And all because Ransom wasn’t getting anymore fucking money from his Grandfather the fucking prick. 

“Anything. Fucking say…” He leaned over in his seat, growing close to you. “Are you scared of me?” He smirked. Not in his, I’m playing with you and getting my way, smirk. And not in his, I’m making you weirdly uncomfortable and it really gets me off, smirk. But some sick sinister type of smirk that made your stomach roll. 

“You fucking murdered someone Ransom.” You said between clenched teeth. He studied you for a minute before settling back in his seat. Silence took over until you made it to the front door of his house. Lawyers should be coming by in about an hour to start working on his case, his parents should be here soon as well seeing as they were backing all of this. 

“You think I would hurt you?” Ransom asked as he stripped himself of his coat, purposefully letting it fall to the floor just so you’d have to pick it up. You left it there. He turned to look at you, still in the doorway of his house. “I killed Fran because I had to.” He spat. “It was for the bigger fucking picture. You want to be paid don’t you? You like having money right?”

“Your Mom pays me Ransom.” You stated calmly. His voice was escalating in volume as he continued.

“So fucking what? Who bought you that fucking coat, huh?” He was talking about the expensive wool coat you are currently wearing. He bought it for you after seeing that your old bubble coat had stuffing pouring out of the right pocket. You didn’t ask for it. “Who pays for your fucking phone, huh?” You had a month-by-month plan before. Ransom gifted you and your sister iphones sometime in the spring, saying that he needed to be able to reach you without having every call get dropped due to bad reception. Your sister’s was just because they were buy-one-get-one, or so he said. You didn’t ask for it. “And that fucking bracelet on your wrist too? Is my Mom buying you jewelry? Or just me and my fucking Dad?” He was still under the impression that something had gone on between you and his father apparently. 

“That’s it! I’m done.” You yelled back at him. “I fucking quit.” You stripped the coat off your shoulders and tossed it on the floor beside his watching his mouth snap shut. You wiggled the bracelet off your wrist and threw that down on top of it before slipping your phone out of the side pocket of your yoga pants and throwing that on the pile. “I’ll mail Julia’s phone back to you.” You still hadn’t stepped foot inside the house, turning to walk back to your car when Ransom’s thundering footsteps could be heard behind you. 

Fuck he was going to kill you. 

It had continued to snow throughout the morning, the soft white stuff still falling heavily from the sky as you rushed to your car, you had to get away. You didn’t make it far before Ransom’s arms wrapped around your body from behind, tugging you tightly to his chest. You let out a loud scream before he covered your mouth with his hand. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He whispered quickly into your ear. “Please stop, I’m sorry.” His large body was bent over your back as you were crouched over trying to get him to release you, both of you breathing heavily as you settled against him. “Y/N I’m sorry.” He slowly started walking the two of you back toward the house, “I’m not gonna hurt you!” He shouted as you tried to bite his hand. He uncovered your mouth, arms loosening. “I’m not gonna hurt you,” He repeated a little more calmly. 

He brought you back into the house, shutting the door softly behind him. You wanted to leave, eyes tearing up. What the fuck were you supposed to do now? Ransom stood for a moment with his back against the door before peeling the wet socks off of his feet. You hadn’t realized that he took his shoes off when he originally came in. His feet were bright red from the cold. You glanced to your left at the knife block there, slowly backing away. 

“No, no, no, I’m not going to hurt you.” He sunk down to his knees. He looked like a fucking idiot, face flushed from the cold, kneeling in front of the door. He slowly made his way over to you, not rising from his knees, shuffling forward with his hands open and facing you. Your heart was racing as he stopped at your feet, slowly moving his arms to wrap around your waist, burying his face in your ratty old college sweatshirt. 

He was hugging you. Actually hugging you, on his knees, face turned into your belly. You could have sworn he whispered, “Please don’t go.” But you couldn’t be sure. 

A pot of coffee was made, coats picked up, and floor mopped before the lawyers and his parents arrived. The only evidence of your earlier fight was the absence of the cartier bracelet you refused to put back on. It sat heavily in Ransom’s pants pocket. Their discussion was loud in the living room and no one looked up as you lay the coffee and finger foods on the coffee table, Ransom’s cup unmade for him out of spite. As you turned to make your way back to the kitchen, Richard’s hand shot out to grab you harm, halting your movements, 

“Grab me some Macallan for me, would you sweetheart?” Your eyes flit over to Ransom, who’s jaw twitched, sharing a look with you before looking back to his lawyers and mother. 

This was none of your business, but you needed to know what your future was going to look like. Were you out of a job? If Ransom went to prison there would be no one to babysit. So yeah, you would be. He admitted on tape to arson and murder. Pre-meditated arson was minimum of 10 years, Murder was 30 years. He’s looking at at least 40 years in prison. He would be an old man before he was even allowed parole. 

The group grew silent, or you couldn’t hear them as you started dinner for that evening. You were sure the four of them would be staying. “Y’N, would you come here please?” That was Linda. 

You made your way over to the group, shuffling nervously in your wool socks. “Yes Mrs. Drysdale?” Linda smiled, 

“It’s back to Thrombey now, but that’s another issue.” Hmmm. “If I was willing to pay you…. Say four times what you’re making now, would you take Ransom’s house arrest? That is, if we are able to work the judge down to that.” 

“House arrest?” You looked to Ransom confused, he wasn’t meeting your eyes. “Murder and Arson-”

“The only proof they have is the recording, the only thing they’re going to be able to pin on Mr. Drysdale here would be the attempted murder of the nurse.” A chill went down your spine, 

“You tried to kill Marta too?” You asked Ransom, incredulously. He didn’t respond, popping a cube of cheese into his mouth. His lawyers made you uncomfortable, they were definitely sleazy and you knew money could get you far in the justice system. If that recording was 75% of the evidence against Ransom and it was suddenly and accidentally destroyed, they would only have what was actually witnessed. 

“Well, would you?” Linda asked again. 

“I uhm… I have a sister who lives with me, I can’t just-”

“I’m sure there’s someone else who can take care of her. How long would it be for?” She looked to the lawyers, “Two or three years?” This was impossible. You couldn’t. Linda looked back at you. “How about this…” She leaned over and clasped your hands softly. “We will pay for your sister’s school, her housing, everything she needs while you’re doing this for us, and you’ll still get paid what I originally offered.”

“If Ransom gets house arrest?” You asked. 

“Yes ‘if’.” She was selling it hard. Julia could stay with your aunt. She didn’t live far from where the two of you currently reside. The majority of your income went to her school, books, clothes, rent, and groceries. Having all of that taken care of would mean you’d be getting four times your current salary and not having to spend any of it. Just for a couple years. 

“If Ransom gets house arrest,” you looked over at him, his eyes briefly meeting yours, studying you it felt like, “If he does, I will do what you need me to do. But I don’t even know how-” Linda’s hands quickly released yours. 

“We will figure that out when the time comes,” Linda has a shit eating grin on her face, “Write up a contract.” Directed at the lawyers, “Now, how are we going to get our hands on that recording?” That’s it. You were dismissed until they needed you again. 

“Why would you do that?” Ransom asked you. Everyone had left a little bit ago, you were busy washing the dishes, knowing as soon as this task was finished you’d be able to go home and this day from hell would be over. 

“Do what?” There was a piece of cheese melted on the side of the casserole dish that wouldn’t fucking come off. 

“Agree to take my punishment?” You paused in your scrubbing, 

“That’s if they actually settle on house arrest.” You finally unwedged the cheese, rinsing off the casserole dish and placing it in the dishwasher. 

“Hmpf.” Ransom had been cold and distant since he burrowed his head into your belly. Has to make up for his extreme weakness then. “But why?” He asked again.

You turned to him, eyes staring directly into his. You watched him fiddling with the gold bracelet you had taken off earlier, it was in his hand down by his side. “It’s what you said earlier right?” You scoffed, removing the rubber gloves from your hands and throwing them in the sink. You walked closer to him, not breaking eye contact. “Because I need the fucking money.” 

The two of you didn’t talk for the rest of the weekend. Usually there was texting here and there, ‘Where are my grey socks, the ones I usually wear with the navy Ralph Lauren slacks?’ or ‘Next week when you meal prep for my weekend can you make me this?’ with a link to a recipe. ‘Pick me up a pack of magnums on your way in.’ Fuck you. 

You got him regular Trojans. 

Monday was Christmas luckily enough, and you knew you weren’t going in. Ransom didn’t even text you to see where you were. His account was rapidly depleting funds, you checked every once in a while. 

234.72 ETRN-STD

523.50 DRNK

435.62 HAWTHNE

The list went on. Multiple spots a day over the weekend. That’s who he was going to be now, the old fucking white dude who sits at a bar all day hitting on girls uncomfortably too young. How many giggling 18 year olds would you kick out crying and screaming the next day? Disgusting. 

“Do you have them?” Them meaning the cookies that were currently at the bottom of your reusable Aldi bag. Your sister, Julia, was off to your right, setting a pot with water on the stove to boil. It was Christmas, just the two of you, and with the aftermath of everything that was going on with the Thrombey/Drysdale clan, you were happy to get some time off to relax. You might even push it so that you wouldn’t have to work tomorrow. We’ll see if Ransom texts you. 

“Of course I do.” This bag has been in your closet all weekend. There’s a bakery near your apartment that your Mom would take you to all the time, every time you got an A, won a game, gotten an award. Everything they made reminded you of her, and it was something you craved more than anything. Every Christmas they would make these fresh baked cookie packs with all kinds, chocolate chip, double chocolate chunk, snicker doodle, gingerbread, white chocolate macadamia, chocolate and peanut butter. 

Every Christmas, after dinner, you and your sister would slouch in front of the TV with scalding hot cups of hot chocolate and devour almost the whole box. Every year except last year when at the time your sister was home alone watching The Grinch you were in a car with Ransom going over a hundred miles an hour and scared for your life. This Christmas, Ransom would not be getting between the two of you, food was cooking, lights in the living room were dimmed. The tree was all lit up and the presents you had exchanged earlier that morning sat unwrapped beneath it. 

Christmas music was playing softly on the tv as you heard someone knock on your front door. 

“Coming!” You yelled. It wasn’t uncommon for a neighbor to have forgotten something, sugar, butter, milk, that they needed for dinner. It wasn’t uncommon for you to answer your door without looking through the peephole. What was uncommon was Ransom Drysdale standing sheepishly on the other side. His cheeks, nose, and eyes were red. The cheeks and nose from the cold, the eyes probably from the alcohol you could smell on him. You sighed heavily, feeling a headache coming on, “What are you doing here?” 

“Bar called me an uber and I didn’t want to go home.” He explained quickly, words slurring slightly. 

“Your parents-”

“Fuck my parents!” He yelled, you quickly shushed him, looking down the halls to see if anyone was peeking out into the hallway. “Fuck my parents.” He said quietly. 

“Ransom…” You sighed, stepping out into the hall, closing the door softly behind you. “What do you want?” His eyes were glazed, he shrugged dumbly, swaying forward. “Okay big guy,” I guess this is happening, “Come on.” You quietly ushered him inside, shutting the door softly behind you. 

“Who is it? Oh, woah.” Julia’s eyes bugged out of her head, shifting over to you. ‘Murderer’ she mouthed. 

“Go set the table.” You ushered Ransom over to the small table that could barely seat the two of you let alone a third, quickly brewing a pot of coffee and keeping an eye on your sister who was scared to get to close to him. “He’s harmless Julia.” You reassured her, or were you reassuring yourself so that you didn’t feel like such a bad guardian, letting a murderer into your home. He was past angry drunk Ransom, which is probably why the bar kicked him out, he was sad Ransom right now. You’d never seen him cry but this was probably the closest you were going to get to it. He was quiet, sat in the chair just staring as you and your sister finished dinner. 

You poured him a cup of coffee and a glass of water, hoping to sober him up enough that you could safely send him home later on. The three of you sat down to eat. Ransom staring listlessly out the window. You made him a plate and told him to eat. And he did. You told him to finish his water. And he did. You told him to finish his coffee. And he did. This was almost terrifying. He hadn’t said anything since ‘fuck my parents’, and he looked dead on his feet. 

“Send him home,” Your sister pleaded. The man hadn’t moved. Cleanup had already started and finished, he was still nursing the third glass of water you’d given him. Cookies were warming in the oven. His eyes were less glassy now. He was slowly sobering up. The large helping of mashed potatoes and three bread rolls he ate didn’t hurt either. 

“He’s my boss, I can’t really kick him out.” You explained, “Let me get him sober enough that I know he’s okay and then he’ll go home.” She rolled her eyes at you, stirring the pot of hot chocolate on the stove, adding more chunks of chocolate to melt. Ransom, still unspeaking, didn’t protest when you moved him into the living room, setting him up in the recliner with his own cup of hot chocolate and three cookies, before snuggling down with your sister and watching How the Grinch Stole Christmas. You moved only once when he tapped the mug against your arm. 

More.

“I’ve never done anything.” He said. “Never went to college, barely graduated high school.” He was rambling to himself, maybe to you? “I’ve spent the entirety of my adult years inside someone’s cunt.” 

“Alright, Julia. Time for bed.” You ignored her whining protests. The movie wasn’t over yet. “Please?” You begged her. She hated Ransom. You knew this. She knows you know this. ‘All he does is take you from me.’ is what she once said to you. Just to treat you like shit. 

“I have no money.” Ransom’s eyes met yours. “None.” 

“I know Ransom.” He scoffed. 

“I’m no better off than you now.” 

“You still have your house. I’d say you are still better off.” You started cleaning up around him, letting the asshole sit in his self-pity. 

“C’mere.” It was a quiet request. The Grinch was packing up his sleigh in the background. You dropped the two mugs you were holding onto the counter, circling back to the recliner. Ransom’s hand came out soft, wrapping around your forearm and gently guiding you to sit in his lap.

“Ransom, I don’t think this is appropriate.” You tried to pull away, heartbeat beginning to pick up. His still bloodshot eyes raised to meet yours. 

“Please hold me.” Fuck. What were you supposed to do with that? Heart melting you sunk into his lap, wrapping your arms around him and pulling him in tight. It was quiet for a while. Sitting with the credits rolling, Ransom’s arms wrapped around your waist while yours were wrapped around his shoulders. Comforting him from whatever crisis he was currently going through. 

“Marta ruined everything” He whispered into your neck. 

“No Ransom, you did.” 

image

2020

The trial, fuck me, the trial. The whole fucking family showed to watch Ransom crash and burn and get exactly what he deserved. Well that and to stare down Marta Cabrera who sat with the prosecution in some shiny new digs, a stunning gold cartier bracelet on her wrist. That was familiar. Ransom’s cheap bought apology. There was a tension there, you knew. He always had a thing for ‘the help’. You wondered if that’s where he had been this past week. But it’s strange isn’t it? This whole situation. It was unsettling and for some reason you felt irreversibly used. 

“I knew the knife was a prop.” And that was that. Audio recording gone, attempted murder charge whittled down to aggravated assault. A slap on the wrist. Two years of house arrest. And here you were, in Ransom’s home with a fucking house arrest bracelet making your ankle itch. Unfucking believable. Ransom had sat in the courtroom, head raised, armani suit, legs crossed and body relaxed. He knew he was getting out of this from the minute he walked in. 

The Thrombey trial that was supposedly going to last three months only lasted a week. You still had a job, and in a remarkable turn of events Linda Drysdale and their legal team got exactly what they predicted. 

“I’m going out.” Was the first thing Ransom told you as you unpacked your clothes. He had half thought to buy you a bed and a small dresser that he haphazardly got someone to shove between his Pam Anderson Baywatch poster and the unplugged Space Invaders original arcade console. This was a 90s teenage boy’s dream bedroom. And now it was yours. He didn’t give you much time to respond and he was gone. 

They say that you never really know someone until you live with them. And you’ve never felt that saying more true. Ransom was a fucking asshole. 

During your previous employment schedule you would come in at 9 am with breakfast and let him know of anything he needed to do that day, if his Mom needed him for whatever reason, events his was scheduled to go to, dates he promised he’d keep. He’d let you know what to cancel and what he would get ready for, and then you were off. Cleaning and maintaining the home to the best of your ability, binge watching tv shows, trying new recipes from pinterest. 

Ransom was disgusting. 

Clothes discarded all over his floor, bedroom, living room, hallways. Beard trimmings all over the sink and what you would hopefully assume were more beard trimmings lining the bottom of his shower. You really didn’t want to think about Ransom’s pubic hair situation. He would do things like take his coffee mugs into his room or into the study and leave like a sip left in each one, letting it sit there until the milk began to curdle. Wet towels shoved into corners and every morning when you went in to make his bed it was like he was running in his sleep, loose and fitted scrunched in the corner of the foot board, duvet thrown off and pillows with half off shams. 

He was doing this shit on purpose. 

And you hated him for it. 

It wasn’t long after the trial that he began a steady routine. Gym, breakfast, some puttering around the house, making plans and then he would go out. And that’s when we come to this, 

“He said he would be back and we would have breakfast together.” The girl was pretty, but her voice was annoying. 

“I’m one hundred percent sure he did not say that.” You stood with arms crossed in the doorway, watching her fix her face in the mirror propped against his bedroom wall. An old antique thing that didn’t match with the decor of the house at all. 

“Hmpf.” She glared at you, “Fine, when he gets back, we’ll see who is right.” This was before you became practiced at this kind of thing. 

You felt your phone buzz in the pocket of your jeans, 

Is she gone yet? 

Fucking prick. 

“I’ll have him call you when he gets in,” You explained, “He has a lot to do today, I’m sure if he said you’ll go out for breakfast it’ll probably be another day.” 

“I said.” She stepped up to you, “I’m staying.” Fuck. You rolled your eyes and walked past her into the room, 

Not leaving, come deal with her yourself

He had been waiting down the street like a psycho, waiting to see her leave so he can come back home, but it’s not really working out in his favor. You could feel her eyes on you as you made the bed and picked his laundry up from the floor, tossing them two feet away into the laundry basket you left in his bathroom in hopes he would actually use it. The socks left discarded beside it was a clear message of disregard, a ‘fuck you’ from a petulant child. 

You could hear the door slam downstairs. Great, you looked at the girl who was scrolling through her phone curled up in the reading chair in the corner of his room, he’s pissed. You could hear his stomping feet climb the stairs and the girl looked up from her phone hopeful towards the door. 

“Alright, time to go.” He huffed, coming into view. The girl stood from the chair, shifting over towards him and trying to wrap her arms around his neck. “Nope. Let’s go, your uber is here.” 

“But, I-” She began, you could see tears welling up in her eyes and you began to feel bad for her. 

You were never one to have one night stands. You had one serious boyfriend when you were in college, but when your Mom got sick you had ended it and moved back home. You hadn’t dated or been with anyone else since. You just didn’t have the time. That being said, this girl honestly thought Ransom had a heart. She was naive and young, younger than you. Your heart hurt for her, but honestly, no one should be with Ransom anyway. 

His birthday dinner had soon come and gone. Linda and Richard sat around the dinner table eating Ransom’s favorite foods you’d spent the day cooking for him. Drinking whiskey and wine, Ransom’s glass never empty. You’d had a few glasses yourself with the tapas style dinner you’d put together. A beautifully iced spice cake sitting on the counter with unlit candles for dessert. 

This was the night that Ransom blew up on you for the last time. The night he cried into your neck, drunk and unstable. Clutching desperately at your body for comfort, burying himself against you all touch starved and needy. This was more intense than last Christmas where his dry eyed stare begged you to hold him in an uncommon moment of weakness. 

He was so hard to read sometimes and you were never quite sure where you stood. You knew you really hated him sometimes, other times… not so much. The more you knew his parents, the more you understood why Ransom was an ungrateful shit to begin with. You almost couldn’t blame him for how he turned out.

Almost. 

“Help me with this.” He stood in the doorway to the small office he never used. It was pretty much just for show. A large wooden ornate desk, his macbook, and a bookshelf full of books you know he probably never read. Including the ones penned by his own Grandfather. 

There were beginnings here. Multi-colored post its lined the desk, laptop left on the seat of one of the chairs in the room. 

“What is this?” You asked him, fingers plucking a post-it from the desk,

Crime of Passion?

He had been watching a lot of true crime documentaries lately. It didn’t help but creep you out. This man, a murderer, suddenly extremely into serial killers and murder itself. 

“I’m going to write a book.” He explained. His face was in a grin, almost giddy. 

“A book.” You looked at him incredulously. Your eyes drifted over to Harlan’s novels sitting stacked on another chair, spines finally cracked and pages thumbed through, sticky tabs stuck throughout the pages. You pointed to them, “A book?”

“Yeah,” He gestured around to the post-its, “What do you think?” It’ll keep him busy that’s for sure. You sighed, sticking the post-it back on the desk and looked at him. He was waiting, expectantly, why did he care what you thought about this?

“Is it gonna be about Fran?” You asked awkwardly, he scoffed,

“No, I’m gonna write books like my Grandfather wrote,” He plucked a post-it from the desk, showing you,

Wife murders husband?

“I’m gonna write a mystery novel.” 

He was good. You couldn’t lie about that. And you wouldn’t. This was a strange thing. The routine changed. Gym, breakfast, writing, lunch, writing, dinner, and then he would go out. His mind was moving faster than his fingers could and you were left reading a new chapter or two every night. You’d once loved Harlan’s novels. Your Mother was obsessed with them. It was partially why you had even taken the job tutoring Meg in the first place, but you know what they say. Never meet your heroes. 

Harlan was kind in some ways, funny, but proud. His pride is what eventually killed him you’ve found out. The medicine Ransom had switched wasn’t his cause of death, his refusal for help was. 

Ransom was as good as he was, better even. 

“He’s got a lot of me in him,” Harlan said to you once, “He could have everything I’ve ever had if he would pull his head out of his ass.” 

This was promising. 

You were honestly afraid when Ransom first said he would be writing a novel. What if he wasn’t a good writer? Could you really lie and try to support him even though it was absolute garbage? You supposed you would have to. You were relieved to find out that it was unnecessary. 

He slipped a red pen into your hand when handing you this last chapter, the book almost finished. “I want to see how you react to everything,” He explained, the book was coming to the climax, you were a chapter away from the big reveal and the aftermath, his hands gently massaged your shoulders before he bent at the waist, wrapping his arms around you from behind as you sat on the sofa. “Do you like it?” His hot breath brushed against your ear, a tingle went down your spine. 

“Ransom,” Your hand came up to lay over his forearm, brushing the skin with your thumb, “It’s amazing.” You could almost feel the grin that stretched across his face, he turned, pressing his face into your hair where you could swear he laid a soft kiss before releasing you. 

“Of course it is,” Here we go, “I’m a fucking Thrombey.” His fucking smirk. That’s what he left you with, returning to his office to pound out the last two chapters. 

It was a process. The editing, printing, shipping off to multiple publishers. He got replies after a month. 

Eager replies. 

Whatever Ransom wanted, Ransom got. The lucky bastard stayed lucky.

“Look Babe.” Ransom dropped a heavy box on the table in front of you, “Look at this shit.” He grabs a knife from the block on the counter, slipping it under the packing tape to open the box revealing glossy black covers. He first fucking novel. There. Printed. A picture of a fireplace, chair facing it, empty. A blood soaked carpet. He picked one from the box, opening it. And there in the forward, the dedication, Harlan’s name…

…and yours. 

“Don’t get all big headed about it kid.” He smirked. Your heart was racing in your chest. 

“Why would you…” Your fingers gently traced the letters of your name, there in print, as it would be on every copy sold. 

“Wouldn’t have been able to write it without you being chained to my house, only seems fair.” He shrugged. “We can call it even.” You scoffed,

“Dedicating your book to me hardly makes my doing your house arrest for you even Ransom.” He smirked again, flipping through the pages, seeing his words in bold print. 

“I think it’s plenty fair,” Okay, now you wanted to smack him, “You live here for free, you eat here for free, and you get paid pretty well to do so.” His devilish eyes met yours over the top of the book he was still thumbing through. “If anything you’re still ahead because you’re the kept woman of a bestselling author.” 

“A kept woman?” You dropped the book onto the table. “I’m not your fucking whore Ransom.” 

“Not yet.” Audibly you made noise of protest, internally your core thrummed with heat. 

“Never.” You packed up your tablet and the new book, attempting to walk around him to go sit out by the fire pit for a while. His large hand gently grabbed your upper arm, tugging you into his body, wrapping his arms around your shoulders, your arms trapped between you.

“Tell me you’re proud of me.” He whispered into your hair, his voice suddenly soft, heartbreaking. 

“I am proud of you Ransom.” You shifted your belongings to your left hand, tugging your right from against his chest to wrap around his torso. “I’m very proud of you.” 

Book published, royalties rolling in, Ransom was making his own money now. He was more cocky than ever. Proud. The, I-don’t-need-you-anymore-mom, attitude. But can you still pay my babysitter? The girls came more easily than ever before, not that they didn’t come easy before the bestseller. 

Every. Night. 

Sometimes two girls were leaving in the morning, gently ushered out the door with promises of a phone call and a, “I’ll let him know.” It made you feel dirty, betraying almost. Like you were supposed to be on these girl’s side instead of cleaning up after Ransom’s mess. 

You could gag. The milky condoms, two of them, tossed haphazardly aside on the hardwood floor of Ransom’s bedroom. Disgusting. You could hear him laughing at you now. 

“It could be you,” He says, “Just say the word.” If you weren’t so irritated with Ransom for this very thing your panties would be dripping with the thought. 

He’s sitting at the kitchen island forking soft scrambled eggs into his mouth, cheesy with peppers and onions, the way he likes them, the way you made them, when you come downstairs. “You could at least throw the condoms in the fucking trash Ransom.” He looked up from his eggs to you, peeling off the latex gloves you’d just used, smirking. 

“Where’s the fun in that?” Asshole. 

“You’re disgusting.” You begin on the dishes, taking a sip of your now lukewarm coffee. You hear the stool scoot back against the floor, “That wasn’t an invitation.” You said, hearing his approach. His arms wrapped around your middle as you began to scrub. His head rested on your shoulder. 

“You love me.” He slowly rocked your body side to side, “You love how disgusting I am.” You tried to shrug him off of you, but he held you tighter. Since last Christmas when you curled up in his lap and held him for two hours until he was sober enough to leave you he’d been slowly getting more and more affectionate with you. He was touch starved, hungry for it. The intimacy of holding and being held. 

You didn’t picture Linda as much of a hugger.

The house was decorated. It was the least he could do for you really. This was the first Christmas since your Mother died that you and your sister wouldn’t be completing your tradition, but you tried not to think about it. Ransom humored you just after Thanksgiving, bringing home a fake Christmas tree, ornaments and lights. You’d ordered a couple of extras online and three stockings were on the mantle, Christmas lights lined the windows giving the house a warm glow. 

“I’m sending everyone in my family a copy.” He told you, “a signed copy.” Of his book. Rubbing their noses in it. The book has firmly held the number one spot on the New York Times Bestseller List for weeks. Already over a million copies have been sold. Whether its due to the fame of the not-murder trial or Harlan’s legacy you couldn’t be sure, but even without those things the book was incredibly good. 

Ransom could have made it on his own, a long time ago. 

“You don’t think that’s a little crass?” He released you long enough for you to finish loading the dishwasher, watching you place the pod of soap and shut it like he didn’t realize that’s actually what you’re supposed to do. 

“Fuck them,” He scoffed, “They’ve always hated me.” 

“To be fair,” You turned to the soft sweater clad man leaning against the kitchen island, “You’re an asshole.” 

He smirked, “Yeah, but that’s why I’m so charming.” You couldn’t help but roll your eyes. 

It could almost be domestic. The way things were now. So different from before. Yeah Ransom was still bringing a new girl home almost every night and sure you could hear them fuck from your bed on the other side of the wall, but for the most part it was always just the two of you. 

His parents never ventured out here much anymore, since his book was published he had a deadline for the next book that needed to be completed so he wrote almost every day now, sometimes for hours. You made his every meal, on the odd occasion you’d order out. Sometimes when he needed a break he would come sit on the sofa with you as you watched whatever show you were currently obsessed with. One time you walked in on him watching Love Island by himself and you hadn’t let him live it down yet, maybe not ever. 

He grew soft, sweet almost. A kiss against your palm. Hugs from behind as you worked at the stove. A snuggle of feet under his thigh as you watched Miracle on 34th Street by a crackling fire. Wordlessly anticipating each others needs. It spoke to a high level of intimacy. Something you both chose to ignore. 

It was nice. 

He didn’t go out on Christmas Eve. Not only because his usual bar was closing earlier than normal because of the holiday, he assured you, but because he wanted to stay in. Snow was falling thick outside, a foot of it already blanketed on the ground. To tell the truth you didn’t want him to go out in this weather anyway. You knew he was willing to drive a little drunk and he didn’t exactly obey speed limits. It was safer here. 

You were still reeling from the argument you had with your sister earlier in the night. You called her to see what she was doing, but she was at a friends house and wanted nothing to do with you. Since the house arrest you haven’t exactly been on speaking terms. She wasn’t Ransom’s biggest fan and didn’t really understand why you needed to do this. You could kind of blame it on yourself for her having no idea how much money you needed to keep her in school, her cello and lessons weren’t cheap and nor are the electronics she seemed so attached to. This two year sentence you were playing out for Ransom would put you in the green, far in the green, so far in the green that you were willing to put up with all his petty bullshit and be okay with your sister hating you if it meant your futures were secure. 

After all this was over, you might just be able to go back to school. 

“Are you hungry?” You removed your feet from their spot beneath his thigh, grabbing both of your now empty mugs, padding over to the kitchen. Your stomach had just begun to growl. The stew you had simmering on the stove was ready to eat. 

“Yeah,” Ransom replied, not turning away from the television. Santa’s trial had just began. It was a strange thing, having him watch classic Christmas movies, soft in sweats and a comical christmas sweater you jokingly bought him. “I look good in anything.” He said. He wasn’t lying. 

You poured two bowls full, bringing over a plate with some crusty bread he was kind enough to go out and grab for you earlier in the day. “Thank you,” He said softly as he took the bowl from your hands, eyes still not moving from the screen. He quickly spooned some into his mouth, 

“It’s hot.” You said, his only reaction being trying to rapidly cool it in his mouth, his tongue probably burned. He gave you a glare, before resting the bowl on the coffee table. This could almost be a relationship. The two of you together. In this oddly domestic moment. He was the only man in your life right now, it wasn’t like you had many options for seeking others. 

That’s why you would get so hot and bothered with him. And that’s the only reason. 

He had never seen A Miracle on 34th Street before. You’d think with how old fashioned Harlan was he would have at least seen it once or twice, but then again, any time spent together as a family was always strained and argumentative. 

Even when he was a kid though? He was the first grandchild. His mother was the first child of Harlan. You were sure when he was a child he was spoiled rotten, more toys than he could play with, never wanting for anything. But that wasn’t exactly true. The touch starved trust-fund baby didn’t get the one thing kids need the most, more than presents, toys, electronics. Real genuine love. 

His Mother loved him to an extent. It’s why you were the one on house arrest instead of him, but she thought loving him meant giving him whatever he wants. When we all know that’s not what kids want. They want to be told no, given structure, rules. How many times have you gotten into arguments with your sister because you didn’t allow her to go roam the streets at night without supervision or give her money for some stupid thing she wouldn’t be even bothered with in two weeks?

But you could also see how no one really knows how to raise a child and you just try your best. Having Harlan for a Father couldn’t have been easy. 

Under the tree that you’d decorated and in the stockings you’d hung were presents. Ransom had everything he’d ever wanted, but you couldn’t help but want him to have something to open tomorrow morning. Granted it wouldn’t be much, but it’s the thought that counts. In the fridge you already have most of what will go into tomorrow’s dinner made. Hopefully your sister thinks about your extended invitation and Ransom can go pick her up at some point tomorrow. You missed her, a lot. Your heart ached with wishes that she was here right now. 

Ransom’s eyes had gotten shifty. The movie was coming to an end and his bowl was empty. “Did you want more?” You asked him, thinking that would be the cause of his shiftiness, maybe indecisive? 

“No.” He cleared his throat, “I’m not going to be home for dinner tomorrow.” You weren’t sure you heard that properly.

“You’re not going to be home….” You started, picking his bowl up from the coffee table and standing, “For dinner on Christmas?” 

He was scared to tell you, that’s cute. Your body was bristling with anger as you took the stew off the stove to cool before you could properly store it. He didn’t move from his spot on the couch. 

“My Mother wants me to go to this dinner with-” 

“So every other time your Mother wants you to do something it’s ‘fuck you’ and ‘eat shit’, but when we’ve already made plans for tomorrow and my sister-” You felt tears prickle in your eyes. “What the fuck Ransom?” His face was stoic from the couch. 

“Why does it matter?” He asked, “I stayed home tonight!”

“And that makes up for it?” You stood at the kitchen counter, staring across the room at him. “I already started on dinner, Ransom. You couldn’t have maybe said something while I was prepping all of this?” You gestured to the fridge. He shrugged. 

“I didn’t know that was all for tomorrow.” His face still betrayed no expression. 

“She can come here,” You offered, “We can have dinner here.” His eyes shifted away from yours to watch the rolling credits. 

“She doesn’t want to.” He stood from the couch, rounding towards the tree slowly, searching. 

“Why not?” He was being shady about this, the whole situation was strange. “I already have all of this food prepared and I can’t pick up Julia myself… Ransom?” 

“She doesn’t like being around you.” He stated honestly, he picked a box out among the presents under the tree, eyes meeting yours as he fumbled with it. 

“What?” You get it. She’s technically your employer. But she’s never had any issue dropping in for dinner or putting you to work on some task for herself. 

“Listen,” He came closer to where you still stood, your chest tightening. “Y/N, I hate my family-”

“Then why are you going to-”

“I have to do this.” His cheeks were flushed, you could tell he was uncomfortable. “My therapist… I don’t want to do this.” He slid the box across the counter top. “I don’t want to go, but I have to.” 

“Is this supposed to make me feel better about it?” You scoffed, picking up the gold wrapped box. His mouth opened and then quickly shut without speaking. You sighed heavily, a headache coming on. “I’ve got nothing, Ransom. All I wanted to do tomorrow was spend some time with my family and if you’re not going to be around…” 

“I know, I can maybe go pick your sister up in the morning?” He offered. Your eyes watery, staring at him. He doesn’t get it. Your heart was aching a bit. 

“You’re such an asshole.” You spat, leaving the present still wrapped in front of you, thumbing the thick wrapping paper. 

“I know.” He swallowed. 

“What does your therapist want you to do?” You never talked about what went on in his therapy sessions. He was too closed off after them, drank too heavily, lashed out too easily. You’d let him slowly work through his refractory period and let him cozy up to you once he was feeling better. 

Ransom felt awkward, you could feel it. He was uncomfortable. 

“Why does this matter so much to you?” He asked. He was turning. He got too emotional. “It doesn’t matter what I have to do or where I have to do it. I said I would go pick Julia up, I’m giving you what you want.” 

“Fine.” You were staring each other down. “I’ll let her know you’ll be there to get her around noon and then you can go have dinner with the people you hate.” He rolled his eyes, 

“I don’t know what you think this is, Y/N.” He scoffed, “You still work for me, we’re not playing house here.” 

“Then stop making me.” You spat back at him, both of you in a similar stance, hands gripping the edge of the stone counter top. 

“I’m not making you do anything.” There was a rage growing in his eyes. 

“You are, Ransom. I take care of you like you’re my own fucking child. I clean up all of your messes, I cook all of your fucking food, I do everything for you.” 

“I don’t ask you to.”

“You don’t have to! You literally just expect it of me.” You yelled. 

“Because it’s your job.” He laughed, throwing his hands into the air. “I have no loyalty to you Y/N. None.” Fine.

Fine.

You hated him. You fucking hated him. You were doing all of this for him. And you’ve never felt more dumb in your life. The house arrest bracelet on your ankle felt heavier than ever. It itches like mad. 

“Fuck you Ransom.” You rounded the counter, moving towards the stairs when he grabbed your arm. 

“Take the gift.” He slapped the box into your hand. 

“I don’t want the fucking gift, Hugh.” He looked taken aback for a moment.

“Don’t call me that.” His hand fell from your arm, stepping closer to you. 

“That’s what you want, right?” You asked, “You want me to do all of these things for you and take care of you and fucking hold you when you need comfort but when I’m fucking trying to make things easier for you, you’re all the sudden ‘I have no loyalty to you.” 

“Wait a fucking minute,” He growled, “I take care of you too. Who the fuck buys all the shit you want on a fucking whim? You’re in the mood for curry, I get you curry. You make a comment about how you really want to decorate for Christmas and who fucking gets you everything you need to do that? You say that you really want to get into fucking knitting and who gets you all the fucking shit you need to fucking knit?” 

“Buying me things doesn’t mean you care about me Ransom.” You shook the box in your hand for emphasis. “All I wanted to know is what your therapist wants you to do tomorrow, you can go have dinner with your Mother. It’s fine. I just wanted you to fucking open up to me.” 

“I am open with you!” He yells, “You know more about me than anyone else in my fucking life, it’s hard for me okay? I can never escape you, you’re always fucking there. I don’t get to fucking-” He placed his hands on his hips, turning from you. He let out a heavy, slow breath. Calming himself down. “I don’t want to go tomorrow, trust me Y/N, I really don’t, but I have to.” His eyes met yours, softer this time. 

You felt like some part of you was being irrational. This dinner might help his growth. Whatever milestone he was reaching with his therapist, this could be really good for him. But you also felt a little selfish, you wanted him here, with you. You felt more like his family than anyone else. Or at least, he felt more like your family and he should be here to spend Christmas with his family. You knew he felt at least somewhat the same, if the gifts addressed to Julia under the tree from him were anything to go by. You wanted him here, but he wasn’t yours. 

“I’m sorry.” You whispered, the tears that were once threatening to spill, now did. “It’s fine.” Your head was pounding. “It’s fine.” 

“I know it’s not,” He said softly. “But we can maybe do presents and lunch before I go,” He gestured towards the tree. “I should be back in time for the Grinch.” You were shaking a bit as he approached you, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you tightly against his body. “I’m sorry baby.” He was so warm, a little sweaty from arguing, but warm. “I’ll make it up to you.” A soft whisper into your hair. 

The little gold box was soon opened, a new rose gold cartier bracelet slipped onto your wrist and Ransom left you and your sister the next day wearing the sweater you had so carefully knit for him. 

2021

Your breath hitched in your throat, back arching, a loud moan breaking from your lungs. How was he so good at this? Ransom’s tongue was at work between your thighs, large hands cradling your hips, burying his face in your moist heat. You were so close to cumming. And he knew it. 

“Oh god,” you moaned, bucking your hips into his face as you rode your orgasm until your body was too sensitive to continue, Ransom moving his attentions to press his lips sloppily against your thighs before making his way up your body. 

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he lamented as he pressed his lips to your flushed cheeks and panting mouth, parting your thighs fully around his hips to tease your opening with the blunt head of his cock. “So fucking beautiful.” He moaned into your open mouth as he breeches you. 

He felt so fucking good. You’d never get over it, you were sure. Ransom was patient, biding his time. He wasn’t that guy who had to be as deep inside you as possible, chasing his orgasm by stabbing your cervix. Over time he mapped out the location of your g-spot, shifting his hips and cock to brush against the spot with every thrust, working you up and making your eyes roll back in your head. 

Those girls screamed with good reason. Just as you did now. Gushing wet around him as you came for the second time, looking up wantonly into his flushed face, lips swollen from first kissing and then pulling you apart with his tongue. Your fingers curled in his chest hair as he picked up pace, chasing his own release now, your hips lifting off the bed to aid him.

“So fucking good baby,” His eyes screwed shut as he moans, arms trembling, “You fuck me so good baby.” He sat back on his haunches, pulling your hips roughly to his, your sensitive clit grinding against his pubic bone almost bringing you over again as he cums. Hips stuttering into yours as you feel him empty himself into you. 

His head tilted towards the ceiling, eyes dropping to find you, hands still gripping your hips and as much of your ass as he can manage. “I love you.” 

It never gets old. 

He said those words to you ever chance he got. It was as if he was trying to make up for a lifetime without it. Love. 

Early morning sleepy soft kisses, I love you.

Silent breakfast with your feet in his lap, I love you.

Scratching his back as you peered over his shoulder while he was writing, I love you. 

Feet stuffed under his thigh watching Outlander and drinking hot tea, I love you.

Buried deep inside you, panting mouths a breath apart, bodies flushed and sweaty, sheets damp with cum, I love you.

“I think you’re the only person I’ve ever loved.” 

It was intense. His love for you.

He tried hard. He didn’t know how it was supposed to work. A real relationship, a real honest to god loving relationship. But he was trying. 

The first few months of the relationship you gained a lot of new jewelry, a new iPad, clothes, shoes. “You don’t have to buy me things to prove that you love me, Ransom.” 

Then came flowers and lots of them. Sometimes just one, sometimes a bouquet. Regardless there were multiple vases that stayed filled throughout the house, always with fresh flowers never given time to fully wilt. 

After that was the touching. Always some sort of physical contact. Whether you were cuddling on the couch or a blink away from sleep with his ankle wrapped around yours, if you were in a room together there was always some sort of contact. 

Your house arrest bracelet was removed, and a gold anklet replaced it. You were free to leave, live on your own. Move out and back into that shitty apartment with your sister, but this was early days in the newfound relationship with Ransom. 

He’d bought you a house. 

He’s paying for your sisters school.

He’s paying you to still work for him.

It was a Victorian. The house. Not at all like his contemporary cube he knew you despised. A rich dark brown with a large porch. Much too big for just you and your sister, so 6 months after the two of you moved in, Ransom sold his house and moved in too. 

Julia was warming up to him. At first she wasn’t a fan. It took a long time, many dinners with Ransom, ‘family outings’, you hoped she could see the way he treated you now. The way he’s kind of always treated you. Her love was easily bought with the new house, her latest generation iPhone and the fact that she now had a monthly allowance. It didn’t stop you from making her get an after school job at the school library though. 

Now with a house of your own, you were doing something you’d always dreamed of. Watching Ransom try to hang Christmas lights. 

“I’ll just pay someone to do it,” He offered, looking skeptically at the boxes you had placed on the dining room table, “I’m not going up there to do it.” 

But there he was, up there doing it while you looked up at him from the bottom of the ladder. “This is the fucking worst.” He exclaimed, taking the light clips and attaching them to the roof. “Why are we doing this?” 

“Because you love me and you want to make me happy.” You laughed. He rolled his eyes, squinting against the sun. 

“I’m not so sure,” He attached a few more clips within reach before steadily climbing down the ladder. “I think you’re trying to kill me.” 

“I’m the beneficiary on your life insurance right?” You jokingly asked as his feet hit the ground. He laughed at your bad joke, 

“I think that’s in pretty poor taste, but…” He pressed a kiss to your forehead, “Yes.” 

“Julia should be home soon and then we can decorate the tree,” You wrapped your arms around his middle, capturing his lips with your own, “And make some cookies,” You kissed him again, 

“And have a drink.” He smirked against your lips. 

“You have a therapy appointment today,” You walked over to the steps, “You’re not having anything to drink.” He rolled his eyes at you once more, shooing you into the house as he re-positioned the ladder to go back up and finish stringing the lights. 

You had to be proud of him. Court mandated therapy ended when your house arrest did, but he still went every week. At first it was due to a little pushing by you, but eventually he made the appointments on his own. He was getting better. Still a dick, but that was his nature. He wasn’t quick to anger anymore, his emotions took a more level head. And he was now publishing books twice a year. He’s got five books out now, and almost 100 million copies sold. Which is incredible. 

You started back to school, Ransom wanting to start his own publishing company, “I’m paying for you to go to business school as an investment in our future.” He claimed. Once you were done with school your job would be to then help him open his own publishing company where you’d overlook everything. A daunting task, but it was hard not to believe in yourself when Ransom made himself your own personal cheerleader. “You’re brilliant,” He would say, “You’re so smart, you’ve just been dealt a bad hand until now.” 

And now he was stacking that hand to the best of his ability. 

Finals had been last week and you still marveled at the fact that as you poured over your last assignments and studying, Ransom would make you coffee and massage your shoulders whereas you would usually do the same for him as he was finishing a book. 

You’d gone to a couple therapy sessions with him, the first time he’d invited you was strange and you didn’t know what would even be discussed, but as you sat in the session and he was finally completely bare to you, you couldn’t help but feel like it was his idea and not his therapist’s. 

That session changed the dynamic between the two of you for sure. 

After the dam broke, the two of you having sex for the first time and Ransom’s admission of love it wasn’t easy. He was still an asshole and as someone who had never been in a relationship before, this first real relationship, he didn’t really know how to behave. 

You had one session a month together and it was probably one of the best ideas Ransom ever had. 

He was a little sullen when he came home later that night, coming to curl himself around you as you placed the cookies you and Julia had baked earlier into the decorative metal tins you had just bought. 

Sometimes it was like this, sadness. His lips gently pressing themselves against your cheek, his body tightly pressed against yours trying to pull as much comfort as he possibly could. “I don’t want to talk about it,” He whispered softly, “Not yet.” 

“Okay.” You knew what he needed and what he needed was a little bit of time. You offered him a cookie, chocolate and peanut butter, still warm. He took it gently from your fingers, pulling away to go to his study, but not before pulling you into a soft lingering kiss. An apology for what you knew would be a distant night. A ‘I don’t know when I’ll be coming to bed’ night. You were sure you’d have three new chapters to go over in the morning.

You loved the snow. Almost a foot of it had fallen overnight, frosting the windows and giving your home a beautiful Christmas glow. It made your home feel cozy and well slept as you stretched your limbs out, hand coming to run across Ransom’s back. So he did come to bed after all. You rolled over to face him, laying on his belly, arms folded under his pillow facing you. 

God he is beautiful. 

You hated it about him. So handsome. You brushed his fallen hair out of his face, pressing a kiss to his scrunched brow. He was letting his beard grow out for the winter. It made him even more attractive, the bastard. 

Julia was just getting up for school, standing in the kitchen in her uniform, eating toast and facetiming a friend. She was in a carpool, this house you lived in, while comfortably distanced from others, was in a neighborhood of other kids that went to her same school. Something you’re sure Ransom took into account when buying this house in the first place. You drove the kids to school on Friday when you didn’t have any classes. Today was a different parent’s turn. 

“Can I take some of these to school?” She asked, picking up a tin of cookies. 

“Yeah, but take the red one.” You popped a k-cup into the keurig. “Those haven’t touched any nuts.” 

“Mila’s Mom said we can go to the mall after school to go get presents for the pollyanna our class is having, is that okay?” She was such a good kid. Getting older now, she was almost ready to learn how to drive, something you’d been dreading, but for whatever reason Ransom was really looking forward to. 

“You have money still?” You asked, preparing a second cup of coffee for the sleeping bear upstairs. 

“I mean,” She smirked, “Unless you want to give me more…?” You rolled your eyes, turning towards your younger sibling. 

“What time will you be home?” The car had just pulled up outside, horn letting out a quick ‘honk’ to let her know they were here. 

Julia shrugged, hugging you, “We might get dinner, but probably no later than 8. I’ll text you.” She shrugged her coat on, opening the front door as you called behind her, 

“Text me when you get to the mall and when you’re on your way home!” 

“Okay!” She yelled back, trudging through the snow to the car.

“Keep your location on!” You could almost feel her roll her eyes at you, 

“Okay!” Annoyed this time.

“I love you!” You shouted as she got in the car, slamming the door behind her. Your phone chimed with reply, 

love you too

With that you went to rouse the sleeping man upstairs. 

He groaned unhappily when you woke him up, but it was quickly soothed by the coffee you’d supplied him with. 

Christmas was quickly approaching. The first Christmas you’d be spending together as a real, honest to god, family. In your own home, ready to begin your own traditions. The house was beautifully decorated and almost always smelled like cookies and a Christmas movie or music was always playing in the background. 

There was a truly sweet moment you’d wanted to commit to memory for the rest of your life. Julia rolling out cookie dough, Christmas music blaring obnoxiously loud and Ransom coming out from his study yelling, 

“I can’t write anything in a house this loud!” Walking over to the sound system and turning it down to a soft ambling. Your sister and you looking at him and laughing, the red faced lumberjack quickly losing steam as he realized he was wearing the hideous Christmas sweater you’d jokingly bought him last year. “It’s the warmest sweater I own.” He claimed. Sure. Sure it is. 

He turned the music back up a little louder, coming to a happy medium. His embarrassment waning as he looked at the two of you in the kitchen. A family that didn’t argue with every other word. People who genuinely loved each other. Something he never knew he wanted or needed. He came over to you, gently clasping your hands before tugging you into his body to ridiculously dance around to Jingle Bell Rock. The three of you peeling with laughter. Was this even real life anymore? With a soft parting kiss and a peak over your sisters shoulder to steal some cookie dough he was reluctantly walking back to his study, coming to join you twenty minutes later after finishing the chapter he’d been working on all day. 

The three of you spent the rest of the night in the living room, watching the cheesy A Christmas Prince series on Netflix and eating what was sure your body weight in popcorn. Cozy with your little family. 

“Do you think she’d like a puppy?” Ransom whispered into your neck one night. 

“Do not.” You were close to sleep, just about to drift off, when his question stirred you awake. 

“I always wanted a puppy when I was a kid.” He pressed a kiss against your neck, fingers gently tugging your nipple. 

“I’ll be the one taking care of it,” You whimpered as his other hand sunk between your thighs, “Do not get her a puppy.” His lips met your shoulder and you turned in his arms, thighs parting as he lightly stroked your clit. 

“You’ll get there.” He pressed his lips against yours, teasing your entrance with his fingers, his now hard cock nudging against your thigh. “You’ll warm up to the idea.” 

“No…” You whined, his fingers beginning to stroke your g-spot, his body coming to lay over yours, his eyes half lidded and lips wet and red came to meet yours as he removed his fingers and replaced them with his cock. “Fuck.” His fingers laced themselves through yours, pressing your hands against the sheets as he began to rock his hips slowly into yours. 

“You’re so sweet on me baby,” He mouthed against your lips, “So sweet on us.” He moaned. Your hips ground against his with every thrust. This slow love making that was making you gush around him, pussy making obscene sounds with every tilt of his hips, gently brushing the parts of you that make your legs shake. He chest close to yours, the begging in his eyes, 

“You’ll be such a good mother,” His hips met yours a little harder on that one causing you to gasp, pussy clenching around him. “Gonna give me what I want for Christmas?” He asked. He did this sometimes, knowing you were still on birth control and the actual relationship was still relatively new, the two of you had been together for almost a year now, you knew that he’d been toying with the idea of having a baby. You’d talked about it in therapy recently. 

“I love you,” He moaned, his hips build up a little speed as your legs came to wrap high around his waist. “I can’t wait,” He groaned, “So good to me.” His lips capturing yours passionately as his hips stalled, grinding himself against your g-spot, pubic bone rubbing your clit as you found your orgasm, pussy gushing wet dripping down his thighs onto the bed as you moaned into his mouth. 

“You’ll be such a good mother baby, such a good fucking mother.” His hips picked back up in pace, “I’d do anything for you baby. Anything.” He was chasing his release now, thrusting against your sensitive clit making you reel again before releasing your hands and grabbing your thighs, pushing them back high against the bed, just making you take it. You both had to try to be quiet here, your sister on the floor above you, your hand covered your mouth as you tried to muffle the loud obnoxious squealing that came uncontrollably as his hips slapped against your ass in this position. Sweat forming on his brow and head thrown back as he groans through his teeth, feeling him empty his seed deep against your cervix. 

In all the years you’d known him Ransom was never a kid person. He didn’t like small children, but he also didn’t come into contact with them often which is why it was so strange two months ago when he originally brought up the idea. “I think we would make pretty okay parents,” He said, “Better than mine definitely.” It made your heart flutter, thinking of a life with him. Knowing that he was also thinking about a life with you, but it’s just not the right time. 

What wasn’t surprising about any of this was on Christmas morning, after breakfast and the exchanging of handmade sweaters, new books to read, a couple new apple watches, and your sister and you receiving matching earrings, a gorgeous little blue nose pit bull puppy, one that reminded you of your childhood dog was brought out with a little pink bow around its neck. Ransom ignored your glare as he handed the sweet little thing to your sister, who was crying in happiness. 

He would remind you later on that he found you cooing to the sweet little thing only a few minutes after that, the puppy curled up in your arms, licking your fingers in earnest. 

“Don’t you have something else?” Julia asked him. 

“Julia this is plenty,” You scolded, “He’s gotten you enough.” She rolled her eyes. 

“It’s not for me.” She laughed. The little puppy sleeping in her arms and you scratched it behind it’s ears, turning to Ransom who shifted nervously to one knee, a ring box open in his hand. 

“Stop it.” Came out from a very watery smile. He licked his lips, tugging his bottom one between his teeth before starting, 

“You’re the only woman I’ve ever loved.”


	3. first blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> how did you become ransom’s glorified babysitter? and why the fuck are you keeping this job? who knows. you hate it, you hate him, but… the money.

You have to do this.

You have to do this.

You have to do this.

You don’t think your eyes will ever feel normal again. They were dry and scratchy. There were no more tears to shed. You’d buried your Mom two months ago, but you didn’t know how it would ever feel okay. She did everything for you and Julia. Everything. She worked hard, made pretty good money, allowed you to have a part time job and just focus on school. Julia was in this really nice private school, she played the cello now for fucks sake. She had friends and was talking about maybe starting soccer soon, but after funeral costs and your sister’s tuition the life insurance money was running out.

You had to sell the house.

You’d moved the two of you into a small apartment right outside of Chinatown. Not the safest area, but not the most unsafe either. You’d be fine. You had each other, and she needed you to do this. You had to do this.

For her.

You sat uncomfortably in the cheap office chair, sitting across from a woman with too many papers on her desk, everything sloppily arranged around a couple of potted succulents and a framed picture of her and her three kids, no spouse.

“So your last job was in tutoring?” She asked you. You shifted nervously in your seat, nodding your head,

“Yeah, I tutored a high school student in English and Math.” You needed some water. The cheap pencil skirt and blouse you were wearing made your skin itch. She types into her computer some more.

“So why are you here?” She asked, “Why not continue tutoring?” A few more clicks and then more typing.

“The family I worked for paid me pretty well,” You admitted, “But she’s graduating this year and they didn’t need me anymore, I don’t really,” You cleared your throat, “I don’t really have much job experience outside of that and I need to start making money now… I’ve put out job applications but haven’t really gotten any luck.” Not with the income you needed anyway. The woman nodded. The plaque on her desk said her name is Stacy Chandler.

“Alright, here you are.” A printed page, address, date, and time. A job. Clerical work. Data entry. You have to do this…

-

“How was your last day of school?” Julia sat heavily at the kitchen table, backpack slumped on the floor next to her. She buried her face in her arms.

“I’m never going again.” Came muffled from her mouth. She lifted her head to look at you. The beginnings of puberty. You’d recently gone bra shopping for the first time. Real ones, no more training bras. You’d recently taken her to the dermatologist for her acne, but she’s not good at remembering to put on the expensive creams you bought. What a hard time. You don’t envy her.

“Luckily for you,” You smiled, placing a fudgy brownie in front of her, “You don’t have to go back for three whole months!” She rolled her eyes heavily, taking the brownie and disappearing into her room presumably to sit on her computer until dinner.

She was feeling the absence of your Mother just as you were. You weren’t sure what to do here. You loved your sister and you know she loves you too, but in the last few months it’s just been closed doors and a few parting sentences. Only because you had to work so much. Only because she spent a lot of time at friend’s houses where you’d think she would feel normal for a while. It would help ease the burden of being in your mid-twenties and suddenly feeling like a single mother. Of course you can sleep over at Mila’s house, her family is going to their cabin for the weekend of course you can go!

You didn’t know what to do other than keeping her in school and alive. You weren’t ready for this. But the only other option was your estranged aunt who reeked of mothballs and was constantly asking you if you were married, or dating, or ‘You’re Mother wouldn’t have wanted this’. No. It was very clear that your Mom wanted the two of you to stay together, and that’s how it’s going to be.

This summer she was going to spend with her friend Mila at their family’s lake house. Mila’s mother was a stay at home mom with six kids under the age of 12 and would be planning to spend the summer pintresting activities and projects with them while simultaneously getting out of her stuffy-old 10 bedroom, 8 bathroom mansion. Lucky her. Lucky Julia.

The apartment would be empty without the 12-year-old pre-teen for three months, but Julia has really been looking forward to it. Her bags were packed and ready by the door.

You hugged her tightly in front of Mila’s house, burying your face in her hair, partially not wanting her to go, but otherwise knowing that she’s going to have a better time than you could ever provide her. “Okay, you can let me go now.” She shifted in your arms, trying to pull away.

“Just another minute.” You mumbled, pulling her in tighter. “I’m gonna miss you.” She laughed,

“I’m gonna miss you too.” The two of you pulled apart and you tucked her hair behind her ears, cupping her sweet face.

“I love you,” You said very seriously, “If you ever want to come home just-”

“I’ll let you know.” She was getting impatient, the car Mila’s mom was taking to the lake house, a beautifully large black Range Rover sat packed next to you, they were waiting. “I love you too.” She slowly backed away towards the car.

“If she gets homesick, my husband still comes back every week for work so he can bring her home if need be,” Andrea was her name, Mila’s Mom. “She’ll be fine.” Andy was really nice. She made a lot of the food the two of you had eaten in the early days after your Mom’s death. Her gentle reassurance soothed you slightly. It made driving away a little easier, but it didn’t stop the tears that fell as you entered your apartment, alone. For the first time in a while. You didn’t have to hold it in anymore.

You sunk down against your front door, staring out into your living room, tears rolling down your cheeks in the silence of the home. Dirty shoes lined up against the wall, throw blanket hanging halfway off the couch, dirty dishes from breakfast still in the sink, and somewhere you’re sure under all of it was the will to pick yourself back up.

You just didn’t know if you were ready for that quite yet.

But you did it anyway.

More clerical work. More data entry. More bills going half paid and others being ignored all together. Student loans you didn’t even want to think about from a school where you hadn’t even graduated. Medical bills you didn’t even know where to begin paying back, itchy stockings, and uncomfortable shoes. With every day that passed you reexamined your life. How did you get here?

A new job, a new office. Temp assigned, but you knew who worked here. The building that housed it stood tall against the Boston skyline. Contemporary. You sat comfortably in a cushy office chair. The plaque on the desk read Linda Drysdale, CEO. And you waited.

You hadn’t seen the Thrombey’s, let alone the Drysdale branch of the family, for five months. Zero contact. Joni had talked to you last, thanking you for helping Meg, but also trying to sell you eye cream. “You really should invest in taking better care of yourself.” Which was her kind way of trying to tell you that you look old. Thanks.

You couldn’t imagine what Linda would want you for. You’d been doing some filing, they were transferring all of their documents to digital and hired extra help to do so, you were one of three hired from your particular temp agency, but yesterday she had called you personally and asked you to come in for an appointment today at 3 pm. And here you are.

Waiting.

There was a portrait of her family on the wall. Linda herself sitting in a high backed intricate chair, her husband Richard standing to her right, and to her left was her son, Hugh. He went by his middle name Ransom. They were stone faced, serious looking. This painting seemed ridiculous. If you didn’t know the Thrombey’s you’d think it was there to be ironic, as a joke, a play on what rich families were like.

But they were a rich family, and this is what they were like.

Linda was self-serving. She only ever talked to you when it suited her own interests and as soon as she was satisfied she would quickly direct her attention somewhere else, to someone more important. She used you to get what she wanted and when you served her purpose you were gone. She had no time for anyone, only her father. Anything for Harlan.

Richard was a predator. He was always making an uncomfortable comment about either your body or your face. He stood uncomfortably close at times and liked to settle a hand on the small of your back. He was a well kept man, throwing his wife’s money around like it was his own. He kept a money clip of hundreds in his pocket.

Ransom was a piece of shit. He was a self-centered egotistical asshole who was sure to make your life a living hell every time he saw you. There was always a comment, a jab at your clothes, your hair, the fact that you are poor. He once ‘accidentally’ threw your cardigan away because, “I thought it was one of those fucking rags you dust with, I didn’t want it touching my burberry.” He, like his father, felt predatory. Something about being a rich white man just really got them going, and the money clip with the hundreds… a learned habit.

“Alright,” Linda’s voice came from the doorway, you turned slightly in your seat. She was on the phone, “Well we will send Michael out to show them the properties instead, I’m sure we’ll find something they like.” She gave you a finger, hold on, even though you’d been sitting here patiently waiting for her for close to twenty minutes now. “Okay,” She continued, “Sounds good.” Sitting down in her chair, tapping a few keys to illuminate her computer screen. “Alright now, bye-bye.” She took her phone from her ear, looking down at the screen before placing it face down on the desk and smiling at you.

You knew that smile. She wanted something.

“So, Y/N right?” You nodded, “I see you’re looking for work.”

“Well, I’m with a temp agency right now but-”

“Would you like something a little more permanent?” A permanent job? The Thrombey’s had paid you very well to tutor Meg, better than you were making now. Granted you had only worked 15 hours a week when you were tutoring her, so $20 an hour didn’t seem like that big of a deal, but if they were looking for something, anything full time…

“Absolutely,” You smiled, shifting in your seat, “I’ve had trouble being hired because my-”

“Okay so you’re going to need Ransom’s number, and you’ll start tomorrow.” Your smile dropped.

“Ransom needs a tutor?” You asked skeptically. She laughed.

“No, he needs an assistant.” She gestured towards herself, “I can’t keep telling him when or where to be for family events and he has a fairly active social life so I’m gifting him an assistant for his birthday.” Oh.

“I uhm,” You really didn’t want to work for Ransom. You REALLY didn’t want to work for Ransom. “How much would it…?” You trailed off nervously.

“My father paid you $20 an hour to tutor Meg, yes?” She asked, typing something into her computer, no longer looking at you.

“Yes, he did.” You moved trying to see what she was typing without bringing too much attention to it. She was drafting an email.

“So I’ll pay you the same. Ransom will set hours for you and decide what days of the week he’ll need you and what else he wants you to do,” She waved her hand dismissively, “Cleaning, cooking, whatever.” She scribbled on a post-it before peeling and handing it to you. “Here’s his number and address, you can go over the particulars of your job tomorrow morning.” You opened your mouth to speak again, ask her the million and one questions you have but before you could say anything she dismissed you, “That is all.” She said. And she was done with you.

She got what she wanted. And now she wanted you to leave.

So you did.

“Well,” He grinned, “Linda really scooped you up from the bottom of the barrel, huh?” You stood on Ransom’s front porch. The only texts you sent and received last night were ‘What time do you need me to be there?’ and an hour later the reply of ‘11’. The scumbag was standing in the doorway, leant against the frame, looking down on you. In more than one way.

“Can I come in?” You asked. You really didn’t want to do this. But a $12 an hour temp job versus $20 hour stability… hard to beat. He smirked, pushing off the frame before looking you up and down, turning to disappear into the house.

“Take off your shoes.” What a fucking joke. His house was a mess. Clothes thrown haphazardly around, a pile of dishes not in the sink, but on the counter. Abandoned cups, tv was rolling on in the background, some political documentary. The house, while contemporary and clean, well kept on the outside. The inside looked like a frat house during rush week. You didn’t want to take off your shoes in fear that you’d step in vomit or something worse.

He grinned off to the side, “Had some people over last night.” He explained, drinking what looked like orange juice from a coffee mug. The vodka bottle that was capless on the counter led you to believe that orange juice wasn’t the only thing in the cup. “You can start by cleaning up.” He gestured around, sinking back down into the sofa. “I’m sure I’ll think of something else you can do when you’re done.” The fucking prick.

You shut the door a little heavier than intended, slipping your sneakers off and placing them by the door. “You’ve got a laundry room?” You asked, he didn’t look away from the television,

“Basement.” And he was done with you too. The tone was very, don’t talk to me. Which honestly you were grateful for.

You cleaned up his messes, the red solo cups that littered almost every surface in every room, laundry was running in the basement, dishwasher working hard to sanitize the first round of plates and cups that could fit, the others waiting patiently in the sink as you wipe counters and dusted picture frames, the thick film of unappreciation. He didn’t care about his house, his furniture, the art that cost more than your apartment that lined his walls. His clothes, while having an extensive closet, some were threadbare and with holes.

He didn’t care.

And it made you angry.

You thought of the furniture you were able to keep from your Mother’s house, well oiled and kept. No scratches. The fabrics of the couches and chairs carefully cleaned and maintained.

His sheets were stained and you were unsure when the last time he had washed them actually was. The dampness made you gag. It wasn’t long before you were cleaning under his feet. His ankles crossed and feet resting on the coffee table as you straightened the area around him. You felt his eyes on you, briefly, but ignored it.

“Do you have any real clothes?” He asked suddenly. He stood from the sofa, rounding it to pull the vodka bottle back out from the cabinet you’d placed it in, pouring heavily into the coffee mug before leaving the bottle and the orange juice carton he followed with next to it.

“These are real clothes.” You stated, coming behind him to put the items away. He scoffed,

“I’m important,” He claimed, “I go to parties, events.” He took a large mouthful of the screwdriver he’d just made, “You can’t wear clothes like that if you’re gonna be babysitting me the whole time.” You rolled your eyes,

“I don’t have to go. You set my hours, I don’t-”

“As much as I love the whole, ‘I’m poor and don’t care what I look like’, thing you have going on,” Ransom laughed, “You’re gonna be around me, and as a reflection of me, you need to look presentable.” He gestured to the demin shorts a t-shirt you were currently wearing, mismatched socks on your feet. You felt your face flush. “And slap a little makeup on.” You rolled your eyes at that. Fucking dick. He smirked when you didn’t reply, turning back around to leave you and disappeared upstairs.

He didn’t come down for a while. In that time you’d finished cleaning the living area, the house looking a complete 180 from where it had been when you’d originally entered, it was nearing dinner time. Your stomach was growling and you’d realized you had been cleaning for five hours without stopping.

You didn’t get to enjoy the sense of accomplishment because Ransom came down the stairs not a moment later, dressed for his evening. If you didn’t hate him so much you’d drool. He looked good. Patterned slacks, chelsea boots, a lightweight white button down, blazer over one arm. “Let’s go.” He said, not stopping on his way towards the front door.

“Where are we going?” You felt gross, covered in grime from cleaning, sweat dried on your skin you knew you probably didn’t smell amazing, hair frizzed up in a bun. He didn’t answer you, continuing outside. You sighed heavily, throwing the pair of socks you’d just matched back into the laundry basket before slipping your shoes on and following him outside.

“C’mon!” He yelled from the front seat of his beamer, sunglasses on his nose, he was annoyed with you. Whatever. You sat heavily in his passenger seat, the dickwad not even giving you time to close the door before he was speeding down the driveway.

“Where are we going?” You asked again. One hand on the wheel, the other’s fingertips brushing against his lower lip he looked at you from behind his sunglasses.

“To dinner.” He smirked, looking back towards the road as you merged onto the interstate.

He was a fucking asshole. If you hadn’t thought he was before you definitely knew now. You were surprised the hostess even let you into this place. It was expensive, and you were very, very underdressed. Point taken Ransom. Thank you. Fucking prick.

He took glances at you ever so often, seated a few feet away from him at the long banquet style table that housed all of his ‘friends.’ Gorgeous women and equally as gorgeous men who had money to burn. You weren’t sure any of these people have ever worked a day in their life, much like Ransom himself. You’d met a few of them before, briefly, when Ransom would show up and ask Harlan for money before disappearing for a week, one or two of them would be in tow bragging about going on some guy’s yacht or flying out to some private island.

Regardless, they weren’t talking to you. You were a strange interloper, easily ignored, but only after a few poked fun at the stray dog at Ransom’s heels. It only stung a little bit when he laughed with them. You were wildly uncomfortable. You poked at your deconstructed salad, the little bits lined neatly up on the plate, a smear of salad dressing beside it. This menu was ridiculous. Why were you here again? You were so hungry and this was not your speed at all. Ransom’s booming laugh met your ears and you could feel the anger rising in your chest.

Fucking asshole. You hoped he would choke on one of the olives in his martini. His eyes met yours momentarily and he smirked. He fucking smirked, cheersing you with his martini before it met his lips again. You could kill him right now.

The money.

The money.

Technically you were still working. As the sun set behind the horizon. You’d been at work, technically, for about 10 hours. That’s $200. Okay, you can do this. You can do this.

You know he did this to embarass you. He made it clear when you’d pull up to the restaurant to give you a taunting look. Whether the dinner was already planned or he had planned it after the conversation about clothes and makeup earlier was anyone’s guess. You had the feeling it was the latter.

He’d paid the bill after all.

The entirety of it.

You’d wished you’d ordered more.

Afterward a giggling girl took your place in the front seat, you glared at the back of her head from the back seat,

“Ransom.” She whined, leaning over in her seat to press her lips to his neck, “I want you to fuck me.” Lips around his ear, sucking the lobe into her mouth. You shifted your gaze to the window, the city landscape passing your eyes as you’d pulled into another valet parking, a bar this time. A nice one.

Ransom and the bubbly girl from the car ride over slipped hastily into the bathroom, he’d sent you a dark look before leaving you to your own devices. Looking over the cocktail list while sitting uncomfortably on a bar stool while your boss was fucking a girl who’d laughed at you for being a ‘dog’ earlier in the bathroom of a bar that had a $20 old fashioned and their most expensive wine came with a thousand dollar price tag.

“You lost?” Another smirking asshole, sidled up next to you at the bar as you took a sip from the beautifully balanced old fashioned you’d tacked onto Ransom’s tab. He was handsome, the guy bothering you, almost everyone in this room was handsome. The lights low and romantic, candles on every table and across the bar, soft music played from the piano across the room where a man sat gently stroking the melodies to create the ambiance of the room. Close, cozy, romantic, and dark enough to forget yourself in.

“Oh c’mon honey.” The man slipped onto the barstool, thighs spread wide around you as you face away from him, his hand meeting your back. “I can help you find what you’re looking for.” His breath reeked of alcohol. You glanced over at him,

“I’m fine thank you.” Another sip, damn this drink was good. He chuckled, moving in closer, drifting a hand down to your thigh.

“Don’t be like that.” He laughed, “You obviously don’t belong here honey.” His hand traced your bare thigh, “You’ve gotta be wanting some company.”

Ransom had returned face flushed and you could almost see a tiny bit of white on his nose, but it was quickly rubbed away. He sat on the opposite end of the bar, the girl from earlier taking his lap. He looked down at you briefly, he had to have seen how uncomfortable you were, how this guy was breathing down your neck. He ignored it, ordering a drink from the bartender.

“I don’t want any company,” You shoved the man’s hand away, “Have a great night.” He leaned back in his seat, downing his drink before leaning back over to put his face in yours.

“Fucking ugly bitch.” He spat, standing from the stool, “Tryna give you a little charity here, you could’ve at least been grateful.” You wanted to leave. He shoved your shoulder slightly as he walked away from you, no doubt going to bother some other unsuspecting woman in his radius.

You needed some air, taking the last sip of your drink you’d scooted back from the bar, walking by Ransom to take your exit, walking out into the summer night. It was early summer. It was still only 60 at night. A chill went through you. You hadn’t expected to be out so late, the comfortable denim shorts and old ratty t shirt you’d chosen to wear had obviously been a mistake for this day. Ransom made sure to make you see that.

The bar was on the harbor, and it brought in a breeze that caused goosebumps to rise on your skin. You checked your phone, the battery almost dead. Julia had been texting you periodically, but not as much as you would have liked. You scrolled through the most recent messages, you asking how her trip was going and what she was up to and her stilted replies. She was busy you supposed. She didn’t need you, but right now you really needed her.

This night has been a massive blow to your self-esteem. You’d never felt more ugly and unwanted in your life. You just wanted to go home, but Ransom wasn’t done yet. You looked at him from the window, his fingers were gone between that girl’s thighs, they were both drinking expensive cocktails, completely oblivious to you.

He’d watched you exit, not giving it much thought it seemed, because he hadn’t made any motion to bring the night to a close, but you weren’t really expecting him to. It was Ransom’s world and you were just living in it. You worked for him. And you wondered if this is how every day is going to be from here on out. You really don’t know if you could do this forever, but you knew you didn’t want to go back inside.

So you didn’t.

Thankfully Ransom stumbled out about thirty minutes later, girl from earlier on his arm. “Let’s go.” He said. Valet pulling the beamer around he threw you the keys, “Take me home.”

He sunk down in the back seat, high and drunk. His words almost incoherent. Her’s were no better. They sloppily attacked each other in the back seat, indecently. And you were pointedly looking anywhere but in the rearview. Soft grunts and moans made you uncomfortable for the fourth time that night. Your skin crawling in unease as the girl’s giggles turned into breathy moans. Your foot sunk against the gas pedal in hopes you’d get back to his home faster, tears welling up in your eyes. The cry on the way home was going to be so good. So cathartic.

The gravel crunching against the wheels of the car was a sweet relief, so was the haste in which you left the keys in the car, running and skipped to your own car. His eyes met yours through the darkness as he was leant up against his car door, slacks loose around his hips, the girl’s lips attached to his neck as her hand worked quickly between his thighs. He smirked, waving a sarcastic ‘good-bye’. You turned your eyes to the road, cranking up the radio as you began to cry.

You didn’t want to do this anymore.

A text came through right as you finally laid down in your own bed, snuggling into the covers, ready to forget the night.

See you at 9.


	4. therapy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ransom’s therapy sessions during the assitant && four christmases and a little bit beyond.

session #1

“Court mandated therapy,” He scoffed, crossing his arms across his chest. “What a fucking joke.” He looked across the dining table at you, noticing how you were growing impatient. This whole situation, you moving in and encroaching on his bachelor pad, the house arrest, was fucking annoying. And now therapy. Your jaw twitched in annoyance, a tell tale sign he knew well.

“You’re getting off easy,” you would remind him, “I’m taking your punishment after all.” Taking his punishment, sure, and getting paid almost 210k a year to do it. There’s no sympathy there. You’re getting your money and his life goes on, almost, as normal. 

To be fair he was pretty fond of you. You were the only consistent thing in his life for the past two years as much as he’d hate to admit it, nothing would get done if you weren’t around. Not a damn thing. He’d never tell you that though. Especially not now when you’re rearranging his unused study for use of him and the therapist who would be arriving soon, setting out water, a couple snacks, and optimistically tissues.

“Just in case.” You told him. Ransom doesn’t cry. He remembers the last time he really cried, like really cried and it was when he was a kid. His father had laid into him for playing with his novelty golf clubs. Screaming, red faced, spittle landed on his own hot cheeks. 

He shook his head to rid himself of the memory. 

“I don’t want to do this.” He sounded like a child, whining. He knew. But to be fair, he really didn’t want to fucking do this. He watched you walk away towards the kitchen to clean up what you’d made for lunch. You’d only lived with him for a week, but it was longer than any other woman had ever stayed with him. 

It was strange. 

He felt his cock twitch in his pants as he stared at your ass while you wiped down the counter, catching crumbs. You hated him, he knew. Not completely, which he also knew, but enough that you’d never fuck him. Why would you want to?

He couldn’t resist, wrapping his arms around you from behind as you rinse the rag off in the sink. “You can tell them I’m sick, can’t come down.” Muffled into her shoulder. He really sounded like a child now, Mommy please make the bad guy go away, I don’t want to see him.

“This could be really good for you Ransom.” Her damp hands covering yours. “Go get changed, he’ll be here soon.” He was still in his gym clothes, sweat ring dried around his neck. He was sure he smelled pretty foul too, about thirty minutes later and a quick jerk in the shower left him a little more relaxed than before. 

The man was older, bald, glasses. He looked like he just stepped off the screen typecast as a therapist in a psych ward. Tweed. So much tweed. He started a tape recorder, “My name is Henry Dowd.” You had greeted Dr. Dowd with a pleasant smile and shook his hand. Ransom had immediately felt a vein of envy, you’d never smiled at him like that. “I’m fifty-seven years old, I’ve been practicing for just about 25 years now—“

“Fantastic doc,” Ransom sunk back into his chair, “Listen, what do I have to pay you to make you go away?” The Doctor froze, adjusting his glasses before leaning back in his own chair. 

“Do you often use money to eliminate things that make your life uncomfortable?” Of course he did. He immediately thought of you, sitting not more than twenty feet away probably unironically watching Forensic Files on the couch while folding his laundry. 

“I don’t need therapy.” Ransom scoffed, “C’mon.” He smirked at the Doctor, “You don’t wanna make this drive every week just like I don’t wanna sit in this room and whine to you about my problems.” 

“So are you admitting you have problems?” The Doctor asked, fingers meeting his chin. 

Ransom didn’t like this guy. Fuck this guy. Ransom stared at him in silence for a minute.

“What’s your plan here Doc?” Legs spread wide, sunk in the armchair, Ransom mimicked studying the man just as he was studying Ransom. 

“Hopefully we will discuss what in your life led you to murdering someone simply because you weren’t going to get you allowance anymore.” The Doctor was slick. He said it with an air of superiority. 

Fuck this guy. 

“You wanna know?” Ransom asked, sitting up and leaning forward in his seat. “You really wanna know why I murdered her [Fran]?” 

The Doctor’s eyebrow raised.

“She didn’t tuck in the corners of my sheets how I like em.” Ransom smirked. 

The Doctor hummed in response, taking a notepad and scribbling something down. 

“What’re you writing?” Ransom tried to peer at the legal pad in the man’s lap. Dowd lifted it away from his gaze. “This is fucking pointless.”

“Whether you like it or not I’ll be with you for an hour every Thursday for the next 104 weeks.” Dowd smiled, “Whether you take this seriously or not is up to you, but I’m sure someone as intelligent as you knows that you will get as good as you give. The whole reason for me being here is because you have no money, isn’t that correct?” Ransom’s jaw clenched. “So I’m not going to take your bribe, but you can go ahead and try next week if you’d like. Maybe between now and then you can think of something to talk about.” Dowd packed his belongings, shoving the tape recorder in a side pocket of his bag and scribbling once more on his legal pad before storing that too.

“That’s it?” Ransom looked at the clock. It had only been twenty minutes. Dowd smiled at him.

“I’m going to give your babysitter out there some homework for you in preparation for a week from today.” Dowd went to leave the room, “Let her know I’ll take a tea next time.” 

Ransom’s knuckles were white, fisted at his sides, he stood up from the chair a minute later, peeking out into the living room to watch you talk to the Doctor, a soft smile on your face. He wanted to hit him.

He wanted to hit him real fucking bad. 

He watched you gently place a hand on the Doctor’s arm and guide him from the house. “We’ll see you next week!” The door shut and the smile fell from your face, turning to meet his eyes in the doorway of the study. You let out a heavy sigh and rubbed your temples.

“You can’t try and bribe a court mandated therapist Ransom!” There was a fire in your eyes, it made his cock twitch. He had a brief thought about biting your bottom lip, “He can actually help you!” You continued as you approached, walking by him to clean up the snacks and water that went untouched.

“I don’t need help.” He claimed. You gave him a disbelieving look.

“You need help.” He felt his neck flush with anger. 

“Fuck you.” He watched as you walked away from him, not responding. “You need help. What kind of fucking person agrees to take someone’s house arrest huh?” He asked, following you into the kitchen. “You’ve got to have some kind of fucking issues doing something like that.” You’d slammed the tray on the counter, turning to look at him angrily. He was at half mast. 

“Why don’t you go out Ransom?” You seethed, “Go have a drink.” He could feel his face heat up, he’s not going to let you win this. 

“You know what?” He spat, “I think I will. I’m going to take my untethered ass out. Have fun sitting inside these four walls for the next two years you ungrateful bitch.” He could tell you were holding back, but he didn’t wait for the response, grabbing his coat and slamming the door on the way out. 

Later that night, drunk and speech slurring he slammed the body of a girl against your door. Rutting his sloppy hips against her panty clad core. 

He’s not going to let you sleep tonight. 

You didn’t deserve to.

session #8

“We can sit here for the entire hour in silence, just like all the others,” Dowd started, “Or you can choose to talk today.” Ransom wouldn’t meet his eyes. He was still pissed that you’d taken his phone so he couldn’t sit here and stare at it like he had been for the last few weeks. 

“He told me that you’re on your phone the entire time!” You had shouted, “It’s disrespectful.” He’d rolled his eyes heavily, “He’s gonna come back every week whether you do something or not.” You seemed brave. Your started putting your foot down more lately. Ransom wasn’t going to lie to himself and say he didn’t like it. 

He was itching to do something else, anything else. The beginning of the manuscript that sat open on the desk behind him and he was pretty pissed he’d been disturbed right when he started chapter six. He found that if he was stopped in the middle of a chapter it was hard to get back into the flow of it, the words pouring from his mind out onto the computer screen faster than he could keep up with. 

It was like being edged.

Ransom was into instant gratification. 

He could hear an old clock he’d taken from his Grandfather’s study ticking on the bookshelf to his left. 

“I see you’ve begun writing.” The Doctor offered, “Have you always thought about writing a novel?” Ransom’s jaw twitched. 

“No.” 

The Doctor gave him a forced smile. “Have you found it enjoyable so far?” This was a waste of time.

“Yes.” 

Scribbling.

“What is your book about?” Ransom smirked.

“Murder.” The Doctor hummed, 

“Following in your Grandfather’s footsteps then?” Ransom studied the Doctor for a minute. 

“What did your Grandfather do?” He asked the man. The Doctor tapped his pen against the armrest. 

“He was a traveling salesman.” Dowd humored him. “Much more lucrative business before the internet and the home shopping network.” 

“Didn’t know I’d be good at it.” Ransom admitted gruffly, “You wouldn’t be a good salesman.” Dowd gave him a real smile.

“I would be a terrible salesman.” 

Silence for a few minutes more. The ticking of the clock driving an ice pick into Ransom’s brain. 

“Do you think he would be proud of you?” Dowd asked. “Your Grandfather?” 

Harlan wasn’t proud of anyone but himself.

Linda had built a real estate empire and he still wouldn’t give her the validation of knowing she’d done a good job. His last dying action was letting her know her husband was fucking someone else. What kind of father was that? 

Harlan wouldn’t have cared if Ransom had begun writing before his death. He would have dismissed him. Not even competition. 

Ransom scoffed at the man’s question, not answering. 

“So he wouldn’t?” Ransom felt uncomfortable now. He watched the guy out the corner of his eye lift the tea cup you’d gently placed beside him before they began and raise it to his lips. Ransom had let his guard down. The guy was playing with him. 

“His opinion doesn’t matter to me.” Ransom spat, eyes flickering over to the clock. They still had thirty minutes left. 

“Seems like it does.” The Doc rubbed his fingers together, thinking. “What was Harlan Thrombey like?” Ransom sucked his teeth, 

“Why? You a fan?” He laughed, his hand gestures to the bookshelf beside him. “I got a couple signed copies up there if you want one.” 

The Doc shook his head, “He must have been pretty distant. I’ve heard writers tend to be.” 

“You’re basing your analysis off of rumor?”

“Well, you’re a writer,” he smirked, “You’re plenty distant.” Ransom’s knuckles grew white at his sides, 

“I’m not my Grandfather.” He said.

“No,” Dowd assured him, “You’re not. But we all bear the scars of our own upbringing in one way or another.” The timer went off. 

“Time to go, doc.” Ransom stared at him as though daring him to continue, but he didn’t. He turned the tape recorder off and packed his bag as usual. Ransom didn’t raise to watch him leave, but he heard him through the open door thank you for the tea.

“We have a couple different kinds if you’d like something different next time.” He hated the sound of you being pleasant right now, especially to that man. The fucking prick. 

“No, no. It was perfectly fine thank you.” The door shutting and the quiet ramble of the tv. Ransom shot from his seat, walking to the bar cart he’d had you set up in his room, he poured himself two fingers of whiskey and shot it back before pouring four. 

He’d heard you clear your throat from the doorway, coming in to clean up the doctor’s empty teacup and his own untouched coffee. “How was your session?” You asked him. 

He felt heat creep up his neck. “Get out.” 

He could feel your eyes on his back, the rattling of the cups as you gathered them with one hand, your other coming to rest on the middle of his back. 

“Ransom, you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.” He slowly turned, taking a sip of his whiskey and grabbed your arm, the promise of never hurting you again that he’d made after his birthday dinner alerting him somewhere in the back of his mind. 

He attentively grabbed your arm in a soft grip, “Get out.” Whether it was a plea or demand he didn’t know. He held direct eye contact, your face held a flash of fear. Somewhere he would feel guilty about this. He’d released your arm and watched you walk from the room, casting him one more glance before he none to gently slammed the door behind you. 

Later that night he could swear he had alcohol poisoning. An angel had rolled him into his side as he’d vomited. She’d gotten him into bed, she’d even undressed him and was kind enough to leave a glass of water and two aspirin on his night stand. 

It must have been a dream, because his study was spotless the next day and the bottle of whiskey he’d sworn he’d reached the bottom of sat full on his bar cart. He looked over to you for a moment, hand holding the cup of coffee you’d wordlessly prepared for him, before entering his study and shutting the door.

It was your job, why would he be surprised that you’d done it? And why should he thank you?

session #12

“Let’s talk about something else today.” Dowd started, “You’re not giving me much headway for your family so let’s talk about something you love talking about.” He gave a playful smirk, “Yourself.” 

Ransom rolled his eyes, cocking his head to the side looking at the Doctor across from him. The door had just shut and the prick was starting straight out the gate. It’s been four months and he hadn’t gotten anything out of this yet, other than being irritated and his monthly liquor consumption increasing exponentially. He’ll humor him. 

“Why not?” Ransom shrugged, sinking into his seat, resting his ankle on his knee. “Whatcha got Doc?”

“What did you like to do before the trial?” He asked, “Give me a day in the life.” Ransom traced his bottom lip with his tongue before starting. 

“I would wake up, go to the gym, come home, eat breakfast, watch some tv, go out with friends.” He shrugged. “The usual.” 

“Do you still have contact with these friends?” No. He didn’t. He jaw locked. 

“No.” The Doctor nodded. 

“So where does Y/N come into this day?” Ransom shifted in his seat. 

“She would work 9 am to 9 pm, Tuesday through Saturday.” He picked a piece of lint off of his pants. 

“And what does she do for you?” What do you not do for him? 

“Cook.” He stated. “Clean.” A smirk pulled across his lips, “Take out the trash.” By trash he meant whatever girl he brought home the night before a joke he loved but you hated,

“They’re real people with real feelings Ransom.” You would tell him.

“Does she do anything else?” Dowd asked. 

Ransom thought about the house arrest bracelet on your ankle, “She’s my assistant, so she does whatever I need her to.” He shrugged. 

“And how does she fit into your day?” Ransom shook his head, 

“She’s just there.” He gently bit the inside of his cheek. “She’s always just there.” The Doctor scribbled something into his notepad. 

“How long has she worked for you now?” 

“A little over two years.” Ransom fingered the handle of his coffee mug before decidedly bringing it up to his lips, he woefully realized that he could go for some whiskey in it. 

Next time, he assured himself. Next time. 

“Does she provide some stability for you?” The coffee mug clanged heavily on the end table next to him. 

“I’ve always had stability.” Lies. 

The Doctor took a sip of his tea, “But surely having companionship on a daily, consistent, basis must give you some comfort seeing as you no longer have contact with your friends.” It was jab wasn’t it. The friends not being there anymore. 

To be fair as soon as Ransom was arrested and the news of the will broke he’s not surprisingly had no longer been invited out. His so called friends seemed to be surprisingly absent in his time of need, but he reasoned if it had been any of them in his situation he would have done the same. They all knew they were parasites sucking off of each other, he didn’t need them anyway. He’d found a new source. 

“Why are you making a big deal out of it?” Ransom snapped. “She works for me, that’s that.” The Doctor shrugged, 

“If that’s how you feel.” Ransom scoffed, shaking his head.

“It is.” It wasn’t. 

The two of you had been living together for four months now. He’d seen you wet from the shower. He knew what your perfume smelled like, distinctively. He figured he could pick you out of a crowd by scent alone. Everything you cooked tasted better than any food he’d ever had in his entire life. Sometimes when you were in an especially good mood you made these cookies with caramel in the middle and he’d eat three straight from the oven. Tongue being burned by molten caramel be damned. 

He found himself looking at you sometimes, like really looking at you. Your brows would pull in concentration as you read the pages he gave you. Watching how you always slowly clicked the pen cap, sometimes sticking the pen in your ponytail when you’d get up to go make yourself your second cup of coffee. You always had two. Every morning. 

He found himself not knowing why it mattered so much. Why your opinion mattered so much. His novel was almost finished but he had the feeling if you didn’t like it he would throw it straight into the garbage. Himself with it. 

There was something about it, the contact. You didn’t seem to mind so he began taking different liberties. It’d started with hugs. He cringed at the thought of him sitting in your living room when you still lived in that god awful apartment. The scent of the building a mix of different foods seeping through the walls that almost made him sick. He hadn’t known what possessed him to do it, but pulling you into his lap had been one of the most comforting moments of his life. 

He was touch starved he’d supposed, but it didn’t make much sense. He got plenty of touch from whoever was spreading their thighs for him. He had scratches down his back to prove it. Something was just different. 

He would feel almost high with his arms wrapped around you. God forbid there was skin to skin contact somewhere. He would get lost in it. Hugs turned into thighs pressed against one another on the couch. An arm slung over the back, twirling a strand of your hair around his fingers. 

“Do you feel like you’ve always had stability?” The Doctor brought his attention back, Ransom blinked twice as if in a daze. 

“Of course.” He shrugged, “I had routine before all of this. I did the same thing every day and while those things changed, I have a consistent routine now.” The Doctor scribbled.

“Have you always had a routine or is it something that’s developed over time?” Truth he told his routine formed the day you walked through his front door the first time. The constant schedule that you’d laid out for him, right up to you finishing the dishes and leaving at 9 pm on the dot. He would follow you out into his own car and leave for the evening. A bar, a club, a dinner party. 

“Over time.” He’d answered. He looked at the door, as though he could look through it and see you sitting on the sofa playing a game on your tablet, whatever show you were bingeing playing in the background. 

The Doctor hummed. The timer went off. The session was over. 

Tikka Masala. That’s what you’d made for dinner. He’d been smelling it for the last hour sitting in the study still typing, two glasses of whiskey in. Not enough to be drunk but enough to feel it. 

“Are you going to eat here, or the dining room?” His eyes met yours in the doorway, you looked so soft. 

“Here.” He said, not having room for much else as you disappeared from the doorway, reappearing a minute later with a steaming bowl and placing it in front of him. You lay a hand on his shoulder, he found his head tilting to the side to rest against it almost instinctively. 

“How’s it coming along?” You’d stopped asking him about the therapy sessions. He thinks he probably scared you the last time you asked but that was just fine with him. He didn’t want to talk about it.

Any of it.

“I’m gonna have another chapter for you to read in an hour or so.” He brought a steaming forkful to his lips.

“It’s hot.” But too late, in his mouth, trying to rapidly cool it like an idiot, but fuck if it wasn’t delicious. He saw you roll your eyes at him and he turned to watch you leave. He’d found a small joy in seeing your ass in yoga pants. A skirt. Jeans. Sweats. Whatever you’d decided to wear around the house. His dick stiffened at the thought of grabbing it.

But he was a little tipsy. And he was getting tired. 

He just wanted to finish the fucking book already.

session #26

Ransom was not having a good day today. He’d stubbed his toe getting out of bed, his cursing woke up the redhead who was still tangled in his sheets. She tried to pull him back into bed which caused him to yell at her. So she cried and angrily threw her clothes on cursing him all the way out the door. He got to the gym and realized he’d forgotten his AirPods and had to do his workout without music. Then to top it all off someone had the audacity to have all of this happen on a Thursday. Fucking court-mandated therapy day.

He irritatingly wondered what color tweed Dr. Dowd would be wearing today. The fucking loser. His wife probably cucks him. He’s probably got a fucking micro. The lunatic. 

Ransom was seething. He’d already snapped on you twice, but to be fair you’d made him eggs when he wasn’t in the mood for eggs and then you were really calm about making him oatmeal. Too fucking calm. What was your problem? Jaw locked as he paced his bedroom. He wasn’t coming down. He wasn’t doing a session. He didn’t fucking want to. And no one could make him. 

He was wearing a hole in the carpet when you’d knocked. His anger flaring. Why couldn’t you just leave him alone? Why did you always have to be right there no matter where he went? He wretched the door open, “What?” He felt crazy. Maybe he was. 

You were staring at him with what looked like vague fear in your eyes, arms wrapped around yourself defensively. “Dr. Dowd is downstairs.” 

“I’m not coming down.” You sighed heavily, looking down the hall at the stairwell. 

“Ransom you have-” Door slammed he stared at the other side of it. 

“I don’t have to do shit.” He screamed, locking the door and sitting on the floor in front of it. He felt like a child. His anger while still bubbling in his chest, was slowly ebbing away to a simmer. He felt like an idiot. He heard your footsteps disappear down the hall. Now he was fighting with his pride. He lay back against the floor, two vertebrae cracking as he stretched it out, staring at the ceiling. 

It was silent for a minute. Then two. Then three. His breaths evening out as he lay on the rug, he could almost imagine himself sinking into the rug, becoming part of the stitching. His body dissolving into nothing. Was this depression?

Ransom would swear he’s never been depressed a day in his life. He has everything he could ever want. Including his freedom. He’s always had nice clothes, nice cars, there was never a lack of sex or money. If he wanted something it was his. So why did he feel so shitty? Right now in this moment. He’s never stopped to think about it before he figures. 

Never stopped or tried to feel anything. 

And right now as he was imagining himself decomposing into the floor he reasoned it must be because of depression. 

“A lot of people get depressed, Ransom.” You’d explained to him once, “There’s no shame in it.” He’d been having a bad day, but those days just happen. He had scoffed at you for even assuming he was depressed, but right now he thinks you’re probably right. 

There’s something wrong with him. 

His book had just been published and it was doing well. Selling really well. He made the bestseller list this week. So there was really no reason for him to be feeling like such garbage right now. It was the only logical explanation, being depressed.

At least then he had something to blame it on.

Another gentle knock, “Ransom.” You voice called to him, breaking him from his reverie. “Dr. Dowd would like to come up and talk to you, is that okay?” Your voice was various, a little guilt formed in his chest. His voice cracked when he replied, 

“Yes.” His face felt hot and the room felt stuffy. You had kept the windows open with the nice weather you’d been having lately. Airing out the house, a candle always burning with a calming scent. Ransom regrets telling you not to open his windows. He wanted to open them, but found himself unable to move from the carpet. 

“How are you feeling today Hugh?” The Doctor’s voice came from the other side of the door. Ransom heard your soft footsteps retreating, the third step down the stairs creaking as you made your descent. Ransom’s heart began to steadily raise in pace. 

“Just great Doc,” He bit, “Can’t you tell?” 

“Are you feeling the need to harm yourself or others?” He asked, suddenly very serious. Ransom thought for a moment. Who would he hurt? You? No. Definitely not. Himself? He’s too vain for that.

“No.” His voice cracked again, why does it keep doing that? “No harm to myself or others.” The other side of the door was quiet for a moment more before the Doctor spoke again,

“Are you comfortable right now?” 

“Yes.” Laying on the floor felt great on his back truthfully.

“Emotionally.” What is that supposed to mean? The turmoil churning in his gut screamed at him. Playing dumb won’t help him here. “What happened today that you won’t meet me downstairs? You haven’t missed a session yet.” 

Ransom shook his head wordlessly. He’d been fighting the Doctor. Every week, skating around questions, not answering them all together. He felt an urge to let it go. To just spill everything that was churning around in his gut. He couldn’t. He just couldn’t. 

Maybe a little.

“It’s just a bad day.” That was enough. It should be.

“What happened?” There was a creak on the other side of the door. A settling sound. 

Ransom explained. His morning was just frustrating. One thing compounded on another causing his whole routine to be thrown off. 

His routine.

“Is it possible that all of this frustration and anger have come out due to your routine being interrupted.” Yes.

“Probably.” Yes.

Silence, then the doctor spoke, “You can’t change the world around you, Hugh. You have no control. You will never have control.” Something was tight in Ransom’s chest. Fists clenched. “The only thing you can control is how you react to the world.” Hands relaxed, he felt his eyes prickle. 

What the fuck is wrong with him? He shook his head. He felt out of control. He was completely out of control. He hated this. But maybe the Doc knew what he was talking about. Maybe this explains the disruption he’s felt. The anger that had ebbed away to a dull ache in his heart. 

“Listen, Hugh.” The Doctor spoke kindly from the other side of the door, “Routine is good for you, it’s good for everyone. It’s beneficial for us to stick to our routines, however, if something happens that we can’t control it doesn’t mean the whole day is ruined.” The fan spun idly on the ceiling, Ransom dazed looking at the steady rotations as Dowd continued, “Get off the floor and move on.” His eyes dragged from the fan to stare at the door. “Get on with your day and try to do better next time because that’s all we can really do, try to do better.” 

His hand met the knob and turned, shifting up to his feet as he met the sight of the older man on the other side who was leaning against the wall opposite the door. Ransom stared at him silently for a minute before opening his mouth to ask, “How?”

session #31

It was just there. Your wrist, open to him. And he wanted to kiss it, so he did. You’d stalled above him, hand still hovering where you’d just placed his cup of coffee next to him on his desk. He did it almost without thinking, gently wrapping his hand around your forearm and bringing your wrist to his lips, “Thank you.” He’d murmured, eyes not leaving the screen.

His second book has become much harder to write. He’d started three books. A couple chapters written for each, a path split. Where would he go? He was unsure. But the coffee you’d placed next to him that was made exactly how he likes it, it helped. A lot. 

After the soft kiss placed on your wrist, the one that he’d not realized he’d even done until it was over, you’d gently rubbed his back for a moment before leaving, “Dowd will be here in about an hour if you need anything.” Your soft voice as you left. He’d wished you would have sat down for a bit, but he knows you have your own routine to follow. 

“Describe your Mother to me.” Ransom scoffed, chest tight. 

“Getting right to it.” He joked, Dowd smiled and nodded,

“We’ve been meeting for about eight months now and you’ve yet to talk about her.” Had it really been 8 months? Ransom’s palms suddenly felt very sweaty.

“She’s…” Ransom shrugged, eyes drifting to stare at something, anything else but meeting Dowd’s eyes. “She’s a Real estate Broker. She owns a company that is fairly successful. She’s recently divorced my Father for his infidelity—“

“Hugh, what about you?” Dowd asked, “How was she when you were a child?” Ransom hated this. He didn’t want to do it. Why did it matter?

“She was busy.” He said simply. “Always working, on the phone, both her and my Father.” Why did it matter? Dowd nodded, scribbling.

“Do you have some good memories of her?” Ransom didn’t. He knew his Mom loved him. He was her only child. There were pictures, her holding him when he was a baby, red faced and mucus covered in birth. His first birthday, she was sitting on the floor in the background, Ransom in the foreground standing, smiling with a ball in his pudgy baby hands. A picture of them in front of Niagara Falls when he was three. But none of that he can remember. Not really.

What he can remember is his first Nanny. A blonde named Samantha. She was young and sweet. She used to make him pancakes with blueberries in them. He wonders now if she left because of his prowling Father. 

A different nanny, older had taken her place. He couldn’t remember her name but he could remember, vaguely, the crack of a ruler on his knuckles. His Mother had flipped her kid when she came home and seen them. Knuckles ripped open and clotted. 

She’d given him a Nintendo 64 for that. It still sits upstairs in the bedroom you now occupied. He thought and he thought hard before replying, “No.”

He’d felt cheap. “Every good memory of her involves money in some way.” He stated plainly. The Doctor had told him instances of money bought happiness didn’t count. Ransom had always been rich of course, money as a substitute for the love of his Mother, Dowd explained. He wondered if his Mother paying you to take his house arrest was an apology for his parent’s quick divorce. As if he even cared. 

“It’s okay to be hurt by her,” Dowd started, “She didn’t provide the love and affection a Mother should. Children need nurturing to form themselves as they mature into adults. The lack of nurturing in no doubt has affected you in some way.” Ransom felt uneasy. He didn’t like talking about this. But Dowd has told him time and time again, he’s not going to like talking about anything. Just try.

Ransom tugged his bottom lip into his mouth, looking at the empty coffee cup beside him. 

“Do you think that maybe,” Dowd started, “You saw money as love and when that money was being taken from you then you realized that you’d have nothing left?” The Doctor rubbed his own chin. “Murder seemed like the only viable option?” 

A chill ran down Ransom’s spine. A shake of the head. “I can’t do this today.” Dowd nodded.

“Okay,” he shifted in his seat, “What is Y/N making for dinner tonight?” This was how they had been cooling down. Every session since the one where Ransom has broken on the floor of his bedroom. A weekly distraction, bringing him back down from reaching his threshold. His hard limit. A little farther every week. 

“I think she’s making—“ Ransom shrugged, “I mentioned wanting chicken parm, so that’s probably what she’s making.” That’s all he did. He would mention craving something and you would make it. The ingredients ordered through the local grocery store’s delivery app. You kept him happy and fed. His pants felt a little tighter around the waist recently. He’d have to work harder at the gym it seems. 

Dowd nodded, “Sounds good.” He looked at the door that separated them from you. “She’s a sweet girl.” Ransom looked at the door as well,

“Yeah, she is.” The two sat in silence for a moment. The clock ticking. Ransom felt uncomfortable. Which wasn’t a new sensation in these conversations. He felt this sense of foreboding on Thursdays. Not that he didn’t when the sessions first started, but now that he’s actually talking in them acid was rolling in his gut on Wednesday night. The turmoil drowned in vodka sodas and a girl he thinks was named Bethany sucking his dick in the kitchen last night. His mind blissfully blank as she swallowed his cum. Her giggling mouth as her tangy lips met his. 

His cock twitched at the thought, thinking about where he’s going to go tonight. Thinking about the girl he’d be bringing back here. The anger in your eyes tomorrow morning as you hand him his coffee after the gym, bitching about throwing the girl out and not so subtlety telling him that he’s an asshole. He really liked that. Your cheeks flushed. Eyes in a steady glare. 

It’s what he deserved, he reasoned. 

He wanted you to hate him. Because you should.

session #52

“Ransom.” Your gentle voice called to him, your back was facing him, chopping something by the stove. 

“Yeah?” He called back, watching your arm move up and down, knife chopping steady against the butcher block cutting board. 

“Something strange happened today, and,” You paused, huffing quietly. He watched your back tense, “There’s a letter on the table.” It wasn’t uncommon for you to open his mail. You sorted through it daily and it was something, frankly, he couldn’t be bothered with. He only wanted mail deemed important, didn’t care much for any Christmas cards or invitations to parties. Not that much came anymore. 

The envelope sat ominous in the dining table. The top slit open in a straight line, white paper peeking from within. He picked it up, no return address. It reminded him of one thing and one thing only. 

I know what you did.

He felt his neck grow hot, the chopping had stopped from behind him. What kind of joke was this? It had been a little over a year since his verdict. A little over a year since he…

He swallowed heavily, opening the letter, the bold black marker bleeding through the page.

You took her from us and you got away with it. You sick bastard. I hope you burn in hell. 

And that was all of it. He carefully folded the paper back up, slipping it inside the envelope. The house was silent. No chopping. His hands braced on the back of the dining chair, he turns his head to look at you. You’re standing there in anticipation. For what?

Maybe he’ll scream. Shout. Bellow with anger so loud that the neighbor, closest one half a mile away, could hear him. Maybe he’ll break something. The four glass jugs that used to be five until he used one to commit arson. Maybe he’ll pull glasses out of the cabinets and shatter them on the ground by your feet. Maybe he’ll just collapse on the floor right here and cry. 

For once in his entire pitiful life, a strange feeling brewed in his gut. A sick feeling he couldn’t place. Later on in the session, Dowd would tell him it’s guilt. But right now as he places the letter back down on the table, he walks to the downstairs bathroom and shuts the door before turning the sink on full blast and emptying the contents of his stomach into the toilet.

He grips the porcelain sides, coughing and sputtering. Eyes only watering from vomiting he’s sure as a choked sob echoes in the bowl. He spits, and spits again. Bare knees cold against the tile he stares at his vomit for a moment, before flushing the toilet and watching it disappear. The sick feeling is still there but he’s left with nothing but bile. 

He stands, taking two stumbling steps to the sink and washing his face. Swishing around some mouthwash as he stares blankly at himself in the mirror. He knows another feeling. He knows this one. Disgust.

Self-loathing.

His knuckles gripping the sink and white. If he were any stronger it would have shattered under his grip. 

He was in a state down with himself. Daring himself to move. Do anything. Move. 

You pathetic piece of shit. You fucking baby. You really couldn’t do anything for yourself could you? So fucking scared and worthless that you had to try to fucking kill someone to keep some fucking money? And you were fucking stupid because you got caught. You were so fucking selfish because you killed her so you wouldn’t get caught. 

You selfish bastard. 

You worthless piece of shit. You don’t deserve this. You don’t deserve any of this. You should be where she is now. Rotting in a fucking grave. Maggots feasting on your flesh.

You did this. 

His reflection looked pale. He felt sick again but all he did was dry heave. This was the worst feeling he’d ever felt in his life and he didn’t know what to do. 

A gentle knock on the door. 

“Ransom,” Your soft voice, “I have some ginger ale, it’ll help your stomach.” He hadn’t been as quiet as he thought. He unlocked the door, stepping from the bathroom. Suddenly tired. The glass was gently handed to him and he took a small sip. Eyes not meeting yours. 

“I need to lay down for a bit.” A mumbled sentence. You nodded. Gentle hands grasped his biceps, rubbing soothingly as his head found your shoulder. Arms wrapping around each other you both stood there for a moment. Not saying anything. 

He didn’t deserve you. 

He knows that now. 

“Has the family tried to contact you before?” Dowd asked later on that day. 

Ransom felt unwell. He hated this. “No.” He shrugged. He must have been a sight. Still in his gym shorts and sweat stained t shirt. He was sunk down into his chair, hand covering his mouth, eyes blankly staring at a spot somewhere in the room past Dowd. 

“So why suddenly do you feel this way?” Dowd asked, “You’ve not brought it up the entire year we’ve been talking.” A year since he murdered Fran. A whole year. 

“I just haven’t thought about it.” He said. Why would he want to think about it? Dowd hummed, scribbling on his legal pad.

“They’re never going to be okay,” Dowd started, “They lost a daughter, a sister. Someone they can never get back.” Ransom was sure that made sense, the loss of someone you love. But he didn’t love anyone. Only himself.

His heart panged.

He couldn’t reason at the time because if any of his family members died it wouldn’t make a difference. 

“What if someone had done the same to Y/N.” Ransom’s heart stopped, eyes finally looking at the doctor’s. “If she was working for someone else and they murdered her to cover up a scheme that wasn’t even successful in the first place.” Ransom’s neck grew hot. His hand at his side clenched in a fist. 

“I would be angry.” He reasoned. Dowd nodded.

“That’s what they’re feeling right now.” He explained. “They’re angry because you took her away from them.” 

Ransom’s throat felt like it was closing up. What was he supposed to do. He couldn’t change anything. He couldn’t go back.

“It’s a good thing,” Dowd assured him, “That you’re feeling this way.” Ransom felt sick. “This guilt, the remorse you’re feeling. You’ve come a long way in the last year Hugh.” Tears pricked at the corners of Ransom’s eyes. He willed them to stay put. “You can’t change what you’ve done. You’ve murdered someone, you took a life, for what was no reason. And you’ll have to live with that for the rest of your days, but you can try to do something for them. Anything. Nothing will ever make up for it, but you can try.” 

He didn’t want to. He wanted to go to bed. He wanted to sink into his sheets and disappear. Maybe he could convince you to leave him there until he just wasted away. That sounds nice right now. 

It was for no reason. Fran’s death. He could have just paid her off and gotten rid of her. There was no real proof that he’d done anything. The toxicology reports came back clean. His little switching of the bottle trick did nothing. Harlan skit his own throat. 

Marta deserved the money. 

He saw that now. And it didn’t matter if he’d been cut off or not because now he had his own money and his bank account was acquiring more every day. 

So what was it all for?

It seemed so important at the time. He needed to do this. He had to. He needed the money. More than anything in the world. He was so focused on the one object before him. Tunnel vision. He didn’t see the details around the edges. 

He couldn’t see the big picture.

What a selfish baby. A fucking coward.

This self loathing was all consuming.

He hadn’t left his bed in two days since the session. Since the letter. He knows you’re concerned. You check on him every once in a while. You trade out his picked at food and bring him fresh glasses of water. You’ve rubbed his back a couple times until he’s shrugged you off.

“Leave me alone.” Biting. He doesn’t mean it but he couldn’t stop it from coming out. 

He was angry. Depressed. He didn’t know what to do. What can you possibly do? 

It was snowing. The chill permeating from the glass. Contemporary floor to ceiling windows meant cold. It was falling in thick sheets, almost a foot overnight. And he was just staring at it fall. He’d been staring at it fall all night. 

A clinking of a tray. The gentle click of the door closing, you rounded the bed, placing down a cup of coffee and some toast, removing the dishes from the end table. 

“Ransom.” You whispered, brushing his greasy hair off his forehead. “You’re gonna finish this coffee, eat this toast, and take a shower before you come downstairs.” Your tone was authoritative. “You smell like shit.”

You sat there for a moment longer. He could feel you staring at him. He parted his chapped lips, “I killed her.” A whisper in a quiet room. His eyes red and blankly watching the snow fall. Voice raspy. “For nothing.” 

“Yeah,” Your voice soft and sad, “You did.”

He wrote a letter. Put in a clause on the contract of his next book. Nothing would make it right, but he apologized. And Fran’s family was going to get a percentage of royalties from here on out. 

He still felt sick. 

session #67

He doesn’t remember what it feels like not to be hungover. The self loathing was drowned out with alcohol. It was the only thing he knew to do. The bottom of a bottle felt very comforting until the next morning when his sticky eyes couldn’t pry themselves open. The sick rolling in his stomach as he untangled himself from the mess of limbs. A sweat slick body in his sheets. A girl he couldn’t recognize. Sleepy, stumbling, hand coming down to unstick his balls from his thigh as he found the light switch. 

Wincing and collapsing in front of the toilet to empty his stomach. Dizzy with it. Head spinning. He blindly reached for the clean blue towels you had placed next to the sink. Wiping his mouth and pulling himself up to brush his teeth, drinking water bent over, slurping loudly from the tap. There was a gentle relief to his body, like finally some water. 

He shuffled back into the room, not casting a passing glance at the woman still asleep in his bed and he dressed to leave. He’ll go sweat this out in the sauna and she’ll be removed by the time he gets back. 

He didn’t deserve you. 

You should just leave. 

He wants you to leave. He wants to be alone. Forever. It’s why he tries to make your job as hard as he possibly can. Never ending guilt churning in his stomach. The sickness sweats out in the sauna and when he pulls back up to the house the only car that sits in the driveway is yours, unused. 

You’re humming when he enters the house and his cock twitches at the sight. It had just begun getting warmer outside. You’d ditched your cozy cardigans and wool socks for sundresses and tank tops. The appreciation shows. He adjusts himself in his shorts as he passes you, the knowing hand wordlessly giving him a cup of coffee made exactly how he likes it. He appreciates you. The comfort he’d not felt with anyone else. 

He had a roommate in college. 

A guy he had been friends with up until the trial. Another rich boy. Just like him. His name was Jeremy. 

Ransom hated living with him. It wasn’t that he didn’t like the guy, he just liked his own space. Heading off to college he thought his parents would splurge for a private apartment. He remembered being so angry when the three of them arrived and he found out that they booked him on campus housing with another fucking kid. Furious. He didn’t talk to his parents for the first half of the semester. Not until they withheld his money and forced him to contact them. 

This was intimacy. 

He’d read that in a book. Dowd had recommended some to him. At first he’d scoffed about ‘self-help’ books, but Dowd convinced him that he’s the only person that could really help himself in the end. It didn’t help that Dowd had handed you the list and you’d bought all of them. You’d been reading them too. A quiet understanding that Ransom’s pride was still fragile and neither of you would talk about what you’d read, but just knowing that you’ve both read the same words. You’ve learned the same things. 

Whether you put them into practice or not was another story. 

But he knew this was intimacy. 

It didn’t have to be romantic intimacy. There was a familiar soft intimacy. Just from knowing each other. Truth be told you were the longest relationship he’d ever had. Even if it was just a boss/employee… but sort of friend relationship. You knew him. You really knew him. More than even his own parents. You knew when he wanted to be touched and when he wanted to be left alone. You knew his routine and every variation of it. You knew what he liked to eat. You anticipated each and every one of his needs. 

And he didn’t deserve it. 

You were too good for him. 

That was in all of his thoughts. 

Every time you handed him a cup of coffee. Even a second cup when mentally he had been debating having a second. You’d bake cookies or brownies or these cinnamon buns just when his sweet tooth was really kicking in. You knew every craving. He swears you could even sense when he was getting sick. An extra order of tissues, ginger ale, and cough drops delivered to the house a day before he’d even started coughing. 

He should treat you better. 

That’s what he thinks while he fucks his fist in the shower. Hand slapped against the tile, soft groans as he thrusts his hips into his soaped up hand, thinking about how all he really wants to do is bend you over the sink. 

He imagines it, your perfect ass, panties pulled to the side. 

As he cums he can’t help but feel the emptiness he feels every night. The vacancy of emotion that leaves his mind void and desolate. 

He writes three chapters that day. 

“How do you feel about medication?” Dowd asks. The room is quiet. It’s been very quiet this session, Ransom wasn’t feeling very talkative lately. 

“I’m not fucking crazy.” He scoffed. Dowd shook his head, 

“No, but you’re depressed.” Dowd explained. “Medication will help with your moods, make you more level.” Ransom nodded, sighing heavily. “The guilt may never go away Hugh, you have to learn to live with it. You’ve taken responsibility for your actions.” Ransom rolled his eyes, partially. 

“There’s more work to do.” The Doctor explained. “It’s not going to miraculously fix itself overnight, but medication will at least make it a little easier to go throughout your day. Might help you rely less heavily on drinking too.” He knew. Of course he knew. Ransom wondered if Dowd could smell the alcohol still in his sweat. Did he know Ransom popped four ibuprofen right before the session? Did he know that he washed it down by taking a pull of whiskey straight from the bottle? 

You knew.

But did Dowd?

“I’m proud of you.” That caused Ransom to look up from his own lap to look at the old man sitting across from him. “You’ve come a long way since we first started.” Ransom shook his head. 

“I feel worse.” 

“Yeah, but you’ve made a breakthrough.” He explained, “The guilt, remorse, you’re feeling is a good thing. Even if you hate it.” 

“It doesn’t feel like a good thing.” Ransom whispered. He picked at the sweats he was wearing. 

“It’s not going to,” Dowd assured him, “Not for a while, but the fact that you even feel guilty means you’ve come a long way from being the self-centered narcissist you were when we met.” Ransom chuckled,

“I’m still a narcissist.” 

The Doc started him on an antidepressant and a mood stabilizer. The two pills waited for him with his morning coffee from that day forward. 

session #74

“You look like you’re having a good day.” Dowd smiled. Ransom was having a good day. He hadn’t drank a lot last night, had pretty descent sex with a pretty red head twice, you’d made him his favorite breakfast and had baked those really good caramel cookies he loved. You were in a good mood, so he was in a good mood. 

His mind drifts back to you singing softly as you pulled the cookies from the oven, he was trying to be nonchalant standing off to the side, stealing a cookie as you set the baking sheet on top of the stove, ripping it open, molten caramel burning the tips of his fingers as he shoved the sweet morsel into his mouth. Tongue scorched but worth it. 

The quiet hum as you rinse the bowl of cookie dough, his fingers finding your waist, pulling you against his chest as the soft rambling of music played in the background. The two of you rocked from side to side. The endorphins of skin to skin. The chemicals that flood his system giving him comfort. 

He didn’t deserve it, but he wanted it. 

He wanted it so badly. 

So he just took it. Your soft hands covering his as some acoustic version of a pop song played over the wireless speaker in the kitchen. Cheek pressed to yours, ever aware of your ass nestled softly against his hips. Innocently. So innocently. 

The light was soft through the windows and Ransom tried desperately to commit this to memory. The way it shines through your hair, the way it makes your skin glow. Your hands are so soft. So soft. He could almost taste it on his lips. Your skin. 

“Thank you for the cookies baby.” A whisper. You allowed it, him calling you baby. A soft sweet pet name for someone he didn’t deserve. 

“You’re welcome.” He had brought the plate of them in here, in the session. 

“I’m doing alright,” He breathes, breaking another cookie open, letting the strings of caramel wrap around each other as he shoved half a cookie in his mouth. “The meds are finally working, so…” He shrugs, “I’m not feeling quite as down.” There were still bad days, but this wasn’t one of them. 

“Can we talk about something hard today then?” The Doctor asked, “Is that okay?” Ransom was apprehensive. But… what could it hurt? Only himself. And he still deserved to be hurt so,

“Sure.” A sip of coffee and he settled back into his chair, resting his right ankle resting on his knee. 

“I want to talk to you about your family.” He thought of Harlan with his throat slit and a Mother who contacts him once a month. The last time she called him it lasted, according to his phone records, two minutes and forty-four seconds. A ‘how are you?–good, good–is y/n taking care of you–good,good–gotta go. Bye-bye.’ She resented him and Ransom knew that. She’d told him once, drunk of chardonnay that she never wanted to be a Mother.

It shows.

His Father was just as dismissive.

He thinks about the money clip. One that he was gifted when he turned 18 was a match to his father’s. He waved it around plenty of times. Ransom thinks back to the first Christmas you’d spent with his family. The fear, tears in your eyes as you stood there dumbly holding his registration information for the police who didn’t care after he’d slipped them a couple of Benjamin’s each and they were on their way. The wad he had handed you from his own money clip silently begging you not to leave him, hoping you’ll return after your long weekend. 

Please don’t leave me. 

He didn’t say that, but that’s what he meant. 

“I don’t know how real people act.” He says, eyes not meeting the Doctor’s. “The whole family…” Harlan, Will, his parents. “None of them are real people,” Shaking his head. 

“Is Y/N real?” Dowd asks. Ransom nods, looking down at the cookies. A whisper against his ear. Comfort. 

“Yes.” He says. “She is.” 

“Have you learned anything from her in the past… how long have you known each other now?”

“Close to three years now.” Ransom smiled softly, really smiled, “The first year she worked for my Grandfather as a tutor for my cousin, Meg. The past two she’s worked for me.” He thinks about your apartment. The one you lived in with your sister. 

He’d only been there once. 

It felt more like a home and he thinks about how you and your sister acted together. You truly loved one another. The little bickering laced with affection. No fight was ever a real one. Not even when you were yelling at her over the phone, defending him for no real reason. He never understood why someone would say a house is not always a home until he stepped into that apartment. 

Yes, it smelled like the curry your neighbor was cooking and yes, it was for lack of a better word crowded. You would say it’s cozy. The furniture worn and much more comfortable than any he’d ever sat in. The way the two of you just steadily accepted him moodily sitting in the corner, in a chair, as their night went on. Even if your sister kind of hated him. 

You were kind. You were forgiving. You were welcoming. And you’d taught your sister to be that way too. Even if she was a teenager and hated everyone and everything. To be fair he deserved to be hated and he was confused, but grateful that you didn’t hate him yourself. You said you did, but he knows you didn’t mean it. Not really. 

You treated him like he mattered. You believed in him and supported him when he had the idea to write his novel. You picked him up off the ground when he was too drunk to walk. You gave him a shoulder to lean on when he needed a place to lay his head. 

You were compassionate. 

“I don’t deserve anything she does for me.” Ransom whispered into the quiet study. He shook his head, “She’s going to leave me as soon as the house arrest is over.” Dowd shook his head, 

“You’ve done something that is irreversibly wrong.” He stated, “You can never take it back,” Ransom felt the guilt pooling into his stomach. A rain cloud over a sunny day, “The only thing you can do is try every day to do a little better. Put something good into the world. Create something good.”

“Be better.” The Doctor nodded. 

“Be better.” 

session #86

He was trying. Really trying. A stipend from his books goes to Fran’s family. A monthly donation to Planned Parenthood and another towards a local domestic violence nonprofit. It soothed his soul somewhat, but still didn’t feel like enough. He started looking at houses. For you. 

You deserved it. When you left him. When you went back to your normal life. The normal routine. When he was left in his empty house, alone again. Like he wanted. Like he deserved. He was meeting a realtor for lunch tomorrow, but his hobby lately has been browsing house sites looking for a house for you. 

Some were too big, some too small. Some too modern, some too old. 

Nothing really fit you. Not really. 

“Ransom,” You called from the living room, “Are you hungry?” 

A few clicks and his computer screen was back on a word document. You poked your head into the study a minute later, a sandwich, cheese toasted on the bread, melted ham and swiss. A sliced apple and the sweet grapes you’d been craving that he had brought home yesterday and two little cinnamon sugar dusted cookies. A glass of water. 

“Yeah,” He smiled. You placed the dish next to him, peering over his shoulder at the words typed on the page. “Thank you.” Always thank you, always please. Please love me, please care about me, please, please, I’m trying to be a good person. Please see that. A kiss to your wrist, arms wrapped around his shoulders, chin resting there. 

“How’s it going?” You ask. He rubs the bare skin of your arm with his thumb, sighing,

“It’s getting there.” He typed a few more words, flipping through two different word documents. “I’m not sure which story I want to work on, I’m kind of stuck here.” He felt you nod, silently scanning the open page before you before laying a hand over his on the mouse and clicking over to the other one. 

“You’re a little farther on this one I think.” It was a story about a situation similar to his own, yet very different. A woman in it that may or may not be referenced heavily by the woman beside him. By you. Who’s to say? All likeness to any person living or dead is purely coincidental. 

“Do you like this one?” He asked. You had to. Your opinion matters the most. Say the word and he’ll delete the whole thing right now. He felt pathetic. What kind of man was he? Definitely not his father, never his father. 

“I do,” He could feel your grin, “You should finish this one next.” He didn’t know what to do with you. Half of him knew you would never love him, not the way he wanted you to. Those girls he buried himself in every night were proof of that. He started imagining they were you, lusty and breathless. 

He could never do that to you. Ruin yourself with him. He just couldn’t. 

“Thank you for lunch.” Another kiss to your wrist. 

“You already said that,” You laughed, melodic. His heart skipped. “Don’t forget you have therapy later.” How could he?

“I won’t.” A bite into his sandwich and he was back looking at houses. Maybe he could find a fixer upper. Dowd said he needed a hobby, right? 

“What’s on your mind today Hugh?” Dowd was in a good mood. Not that he wasn’t always in a good mood, but today he was in a very good mood. He showed up to the session and very unprofessionally showed you pictures of his newborn grandchild. A little rosy cheeked, baby girl named Ellie. Ransom admired how your eyes softened and lips pulled into a bright smile. He wished you would smile at him like that. 

“I’m gonna buy a house.” Giddy almost. “Fix it up.” He nods, “My hobby right? Work with my hands.” Dowd looked at him skeptically. 

“That’s a lot of work,” He laughed, “Have you ever lifted a hammer?” Ransom shrugged. 

“Can’t be that hard.” It would be… very hard. But he’ll find that out later. “Lots of people do it, right?” Dowd gave a weird grin. 

“Yeah but most of them have had some prior teaching or are professionals.” Ransom’s mouth opened and then closed again, eyes squinting as he thought. Surely he could do it, right? He had to. 

It was penance. 

“I’ll figure something out.” Ransom took a sip of coffee, “I’ve been journalling a bit.” He said, pulling a leather moleskine from the seat cushion. He’s learning to deal with the guilt. The regret. He gets emails about how his contributions have been saving lives, women who need free healthcare, domestic violence victims that have been rehoused thanks to his donations. It doesn’t make it better, he reasons, the murder. 

But it’s penance. 

“Are you almost done?” Dowd asked, “With the second book?” The first book he’d published he had given Dowd a signed copy, he would willingly give him a signed copy of the second one too. 

“Yeah, just about.” He sighed, “A few more chapters.” Dowd nodded. 

“Do you want to talk about the self-loathing you’ve been feeling?” Dowd was perceptive. Ransom knew this, but the question still blindsided him. He wonders if you’ve mentioned anything to the Doctor while scrolling through the 200 pictures and cooing over the newborn in a hundred different outfits. Ransom knows you’ve seen it too. You’re perceptive too. 

“Not really.” Ransom answered honestly. It made Dowd laugh, “I know you say I have to learn to live with it, I have to live with the guilt for murdering Fran, but I don’t know…” He stared at the Doctor, eyes betraying the sadness he felt in his soul. The despair. “How does anyone live like this? How does anyone live after they’ve murdered someone?” The last question was a whisper, eyes glazing over and staring at the floor. 

He should have just gone to jail. He should have been in jail for the rest of his life, but he couldn’t. He didn’t. He’s not. He’s here. Double jeopardy. He could write a book right now on how he killed Fran, how he set up Marta, how he pushed his Grandfather to suicide and you know what would happen? Nothing.

You can’t be tried for a crime you were acquitted from. The jury found him not guilty. Only six people really knew the whole truth. The three detectives, Marta, himself, and you. The three detectives didn’t matter anymore. 

Marta didn’t matter anymore. 

He didn’t matter anymore. 

You never brought it up. The murder. Not unless he brought it up first. It was a hard limit. A line not crossed. You had to forgive him. You just had to. Didn’t you already? Did you hate him? Were you secretly seething with the fact that you had that house arrest bracelet on? Were you really only here for the money? 

He wouldn’t be able to take it, he doesn’t think. 

Maybe he’ll become a recluse. 

Everything is digital now, ordering groceries, maybe he’ll just get a maid to clean up once a week. You can go, take your money and leave him. It’ll be okay. He’ll be okay. He will survive. 

It’s his penance. 

He watched you make dinner, Dowd’s words ringing in his ears, bouncing from one to the other, “You can’t hate yourself forever for this, nothing you can do will make it right, you’ve become a better person. An empathetic person, just be better. Every day, try and do better.” He thinks you’re beautiful. 

You’d asked him what he wanted to eat and always was his reply of whatever he’d been craving that day, but tonight he said, “Whatever you feel like eating.” So he didn’t know, but it smelled amazing. He’d eat garbage if you put it in front of him. Whatever it was, it was delicious. Some kind of soup. A couple of heated rolls straight from the oven and a green salad, drizzled with a vinaigrette you’d seemed nervous about. 

“I found it on Pinterest.” You had explained, “If you don’t like it–” It was delicious. Everything you made him was delicious. He didn’t care. 

“It’s good.” He said. He meant it. He wondered now, with less than five months left of his sentence, how soon after it was over would you leave him? And would you never want to see him again? Because he doesn’t know if he could handle it. He needs you. 

He really fucking needs you. 

session #95 

The girl came back. The one you had kicked out of his bed while he was gone. He told you he was at the gym, but what he was really doing was checking on the work done on the beautiful dark cherry wood Victorian with wrap around porch he’d recently purchased. He couldn’t fix it up on his own, that was the truth. Dowd was right, but he was working with a contractor and small crew. 

One day a week he would go over there and help them rip out cabinets or tear down walls. Not too many because the house, he reasoned seemed more like something you would like if it wasn’t completely open concept. 

He’d sat there, in the early morning light, watching the sun come through the windows. Dust filtered through the air from where they had sanded the floors, refinishing them. They’ll lay down the stain and seal them today. The windows caught the light perfectly. The sun rose and set over this house beautifully, glowing with natural light. You were going to love it. 

He was sure of it. 

A shout, stumbling in the gravel of the driveway, “FUCK YOU RANSOM.” A laugh drowned in his coffee. 

“What’s on the agenda today Ransom,” He watched you shut the door, irritated with him, “Because if I have to do that again tomorrow I’ll quit.” Lies.

You couldn’t quit. 

Not for another nine weeks. 

“Don’t worry,” He said, “I’ve got a deadline to meet.” It’s true. He did. Four more chapters and the book was done. He coffee mug in your hand. An emptiness in his heart with the realization of you leaving. Nine weeks. And you’re gone. 

He threw himself into it. He was going to finish it this week. The frustration he felt, he just wanted to be done with this book. He was over it, but he was so close to finishing. Doesn’t mean he’s not still a liar. 

He needed a fucking break. His head was pounding and you’d come in the office in thin worn out black leggings. When you bent over to pick up the pillow that fell on the floor, he could see the thong you were wearing. His dick was hard. 

A promise, “I’ll kick her out myself.” And he was gone. 

The girl he brought home, she looked a bit like you. Enough like you when she rubbed her ass against his lap that he’d drug her home. Her lips were attached to his neck. He could imagine her as you. Faintly. Almost. 

He felt passive aggressive. He was sort of taking out the anger of not being able to have you on you, not realizing, or not caring? His back met your bedroom door, the girl moaning enthusiastically as her lips trailed down his chest, button down splayed open. Belt clinking and his dick was in her mouth. 

Fuck. Head hitting the door. He whispered your name in his head. 

He wanted you so bad. 

He wanted you so bad. 

He wanted you so fucking bad. 

He pulled the girl off him by her hair. He was going to cum too soon if he thought about it. He could do this.

As he lost himself in her body, bed rocking, hips swinging in a punishing rhythm, the girl’s loud moans drowned out the whisper of your name on his lips. 

You were a sight. Sleepy, red marked paper in front of you. You’d found the chapter’s he’d finished just hours before. The ones he had forgotten to give to you. Your hair was messy and your cozy sweater had fallen from your shoulder. He wanted to press a kiss to the exposed skin, but obviously he couldn’t. 

“What do you think?” He asked. He watched you jump in your seat, hand pressed quickly to your chest. 

“You scared the shit out of me.” You laughed nervously, “It’s good,” You cleared your throat, “I’m not sure how much longer I can wait for you to finish to be honest.” 

“Let me see.” The packet was scribbled over. 

I think he did it, he’s an asshole. 

I don’t like her either. 

Ew, why would anyone ever say that to anyone else?

Add more detail here, I can’t picture it well enough. 

“What are you doing out of bed?” You asked, you rolled the chair side to side. It was cute. Endearing. 

“I told you I was going to kick her out.” She wasn’t happy about it. She tried to get him to go another round, but he felt empty. He didn’t want to. You were waiting downstairs after all. 

“And you couldn’t start doing this sooner?” He smiled, he liked that you hated it. It maybe made him think you could be jealous. In some universe. Maybe not this one. 

“I like how much it bothers you,” He answers honestly. 

“It’s annoying,” you snarked back quickly, “Worst way to start my day.” You were being funny. 

“That’s the only reason?” Ransom responds, he leant back in his chair, throwing the packet onto the desk. Please say you want to be with me. Give me permission here. 

“You’re such an asshole, you know that?” You scoffed, angry with him. Clearly. You made to walk by him, to leave the room. He reached out and grabbed your arm to stop you, softly. 

“If you want to take their place, just let me know.” A wink, a playful slap on his shoulder and you were gone. 

“Dick.” Reverberated in the office. A playful laugh. 

Therapy today.

He hadn’t slept a whole lot, four hours total. He was tired. And grumpy. 

“She loves you, you know that right?” Dowd said halfway through the session. Ransom was deep in his self-loathing today. Probably from the lack of sleep. 

Definitely not because each day got closer and closer to you leaving him. Definitely not that. 

He shook his head, “She works for me, she gets paid to be nice to me.” Dowd frowned. 

“You can’t really believe that Hugh.” Ransom shook his head, 

“I don’t deserve her.” 

“Men don’t deserve women,” Dowd said, “Period.” He laughs, straightening his tie. “My wife, we’ve been married for thirty years now and I can’t honestly remember life without her in it. She worked to help me get through school and now with my practice I’ve been able to let her do whatever heart desires.” He was smiling fondly, thinking about it. “She’s given me three beautiful daughters, we have a beautiful granddaughter now. A beautiful home, she can’t cook to save her life, but that’s what I’m for… she’s the love of my life, truly.” Ransom looked at the grey old man across from him, the Doctor’s eyes were misty. “She helps me run my practice.” He says, “I would be lost without her and I will work hard to even be close to the man she deserves.” 

“It’s just not meant for me Doc.” Ransom swallowed heavily. “It’s not.” 

He needed to get out of this fucking house. He couldn’t look at you. He got rid of Dowd. A little harshly. He felt bad about it. You looked up at him from the couch.

“I’m going out.” 

Was this love? Yes. He knew he loved you. He’s no a fucking idiot. But you were too good for him. Who forgives a murderer? Who? Why did you have to be like that? So fucking perfect. 

You were. So fucking perfect. This house he was fixing for you, the car he was going to buy you after the next book. You deserved all of it. 

You and your sister will be taken care of. You’ll never want for anything. You were talking about going back to school maybe, once it’s over. You could do that. He’d do anything for you if you’d ask. He’d pay for all of it. Anything. It’s yours. 

How does he resolve this? He doesn’t know. 

The donuts, the latte, and his mouth between your thighs a day later. He doesn’t know how to be a good man, but he’s going to fucking try, and try until he gets it right. Until he makes everything right. For the both of you. 

“I think you’re the only person I’ve ever loved.” You’re so receptive beneath him. He loves you so much. The only person he’s ever felt this intense affection for. Not even his own parents he’s loved. 

He buries himself between your thighs twice that morning. Panting into your mouth the first time, into your neck the second as he rocks his hips into your tight wet heat from behind. Ass nestled against his hips how he’s always dreamed, teeth biting into his thumb as the two of you lay on your sides. 

“I don’t deserve you.” He whispered against your neck. His heart racing from his recent orgasm. “I’m sorry.” 

session #104

This was it. The last day. Ransom noticed your ankle looked pale, empty now that the bracelet was gone. He would have to fix that. “What am I gonna do now that the dumb bracelet isn’t taking out my ankle anymore?” He whispered into your ear. The damn think had knocked against his ankle bone multiple times in sleep or during sex, enough to make him wince and comment on it multiple times. 

Your laugh was melodic to his ears. It was just the two of you now. His Mother stopped by with the same man who had placed the damn ankle monitor on you two years prior to remove it. She made a big show about staying for breakfast. 

“So I’m assuming she’ll be moved out by dinner,” She had laughed, “She’s probably sick of you.” Ransom felt a little hurt by that, but his Mother also didn’t know the two of you were now together and ‘moved out by dinner’ was actually going to be him taking you and your sister to dinner and then to your new house that was just finished this morning. 

The two of you shared a look and agreed not to say anything. 

He dried the dishes as you washed. This oddly domestic moment giving him true belief that maybe this could work. He could have it. He could have what other people have and be okay. 

“I love you too.” You’d whispered into his mouth last night. You hadn’t said it back yet, it was the first time. Hands tangled in his hair as you angled his face down. “Please don’t hurt me.” He could never, would never. Not if he could help it. 

He brushed his hip against yours as the soft crooning melody played in the background. After the therapy session today the two of you were going to go pick your sister up early from school and drive down to the harbor. He wanted to take you both to dinner. Somewhere you’d wanted to eat for the past two years. A little hole in the wall Spanish place that had ‘the best ceviche and sopas you’ll ever have’ you’ve been talking about it for two weeks now. 

Things had changed a lot in the past nine weeks. And not just because the two of you began to have sex on a regular basis. The house seemed more calm. There was an ease now, a tension that had left Ransom’s shoulders. You seemed more at ease too from what he could tell. You’d begun showering him with more affection, sweet lingering kisses down his spine before you left the bed, a press of your lips to his as you enter or exit a room. Thumb releasing the tension in his brow when he was too focused on writing, a kiss wishing it away. 

The two of you fell into step as though this was a two year anniversary instead of a two month. 

It was nice.

It was very nice. 

“It’s good to see you happy.” Dowd said. “I’m very proud of you. You’ve come a long way in the last two years.” Ransom nodded. He felt proud. He did. The guilt still gnawed at him sometimes. But he’d received a letter about a week ago. 

Fran’s Mother. 

Forgiveness is a tricky thing. And while the two of them would never meet, and probably never speak again. Fran’s Mother believed that God was telling her to forgive him. She thanked him for the royalty checks she’d been receiving in the mail. It helped with her husband’s increasing medical bills. But she will never have her little girl back. 

And it was his fault. But she forgave him. Just how he was learning to forgive his parents. 

Forgive himself. That was the hard one. He’ll be working on that maybe until the day he dies he thinks. Maybe. 

“She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” Ransom explains. Dowd smiled softly, 

“And she’s not going to leave.”

“Yeah,” Ransom agreed, “She’s not going to leave.” Well she is, but not completely. He was an adult. He could start taking care of himself, but she was still going to technically be his assistant. 

“This is our last session together and before it ends is there anything you’d like to say?” Dowd asked him. The old man had taken on a new light for him over the last two years, Ransom really liked the guy. There was no doubt he helped him a lot, but it was more than that. Dowd was a good man. It was admirable. Ransom had never met a good man in his entire life. 

Dowd loved his family, his wife, he loved his job. He was a good guy and if it wasn’t wildly inappropriate Ransom would have loved to take him golfing. Maybe invite his family over for dinner. Maybe one day. Maybe once the Doctor retires. 

“I don’t think it should be our last session.” Dowd smiled at that.

“That’s exactly how you know you’ve improved.” The man assured, “Cause you’re nowhere near done.” Ransom should have taken offense to that, but he knew. He was still a work in progress. He still needed help, just maybe not as much as before. 

Dowd parted with a cookie tin full of those caramel cookies Ransom loved so much, but he was too excited to care. You were ready to go. You wanted to see your sister more than anything else and he was happy to take you there. 

He smirked as you ran into your sister’s arms. The fourteen year old was taller than you now, her face dotted with acne. She glared at Ransom over your shoulder. 

He deserves it. Honestly. 

Dinner was no better. The teen ignoring him completely as he sat awkwardly in the smallest restaurant he’d even been in. You’d spoke practiced spanish to the server and older woman he’d also seen flipping tortillas on the flat top in the back. You’d placed a paper plate with radishes, limes, and a mix of spicy peppers, onions, and cactus in front of the three of you. 

A mess of plates were served. This little hole in the wall served the best tacos he’d ever had. Acidic ceviche that he’d eaten scooped into chips, the second order he ate with a spoon straight from the bowl. He didn’t interrupt the two of you and your jovial conversation. 

Julia gossiped about a girl at school who was apparently a total bitch and everyone hates her, but she had secretly been dating another girl they went to school with and was now being super nice because she wasn’t closeted anymore. 

There was another story about a teacher who had recently lost a child that your sister and her club had been trying to get money together to help pay for the funeral, “How much do you need?” Ransom interrupted. 

Julia looked at him with wide eyes, almost forgetting he was there for a moment. “Uh… like we’ve raised almost $2,000 but we were trying to get a full ten.” Ransom nodded, squeezing a lime over his taco. 

“Remind me to write you a check before I drop you back off.” He felt your eyes on him, a soft smile. You weren’t going to spring the relationship on your sister quite yet. Not when she still wanted to strangle him. 

“That- You’re going to give me $8,000?” Julia asked incredulously. Ransom nodded, chewing and swallowing. 

“It’s hard to lose a child.” He offered, “It’s hard for everyone.”

“Especially the parents.” Julia bit. He deserved that. He nods. 

“Especially the parents.” 

He was nervous. What if you didn’t like it? He’d sell it he’d suppose. But you had to like it. He broke into your tablet one night and sent screenshots of your Pinterest saves to an interior designer. It should be what you want, how you wanted it. 

“Where are we going?” You asked. You had sat in the back with your sister. The two of you holding hands and talking about how homecoming went and how there was a junior guy in band who had asked her to the prom. 

“We’re almost there.” He pulled into a paved driveway, turning the corner he tapped a few times on his phone the dark house lighting up before him. He heard two collective gasps from the backseat. 

“Ransom, what is this?” You were confused, obviously. He exited the car, the two of you following. 

He stepped up on the porch, not answering. His heart racing in his chest. He dug out the small key chain that had been weighing heavily in his pocket, turning to the two of you and hanging it from a finger. “I know you hate expensive gifts, but I can’t let you go back to that apartment.” His mouth was dry. 

“Ransom.” You breathed. The keys were snatched from his finger, Julia moved past him to unlock the door, rushing inside. 

“Oh my God!” She squealed from inside. Ransom shrugged softly, hand still outstretched towards yours. 

“Please take it.” He whispered. A few seconds ticked by as he watched you decide. Please take it. 

“Y/N,” Julia called, “This house is incredible.” She was panting in the doorway, shoes already discarded. He watched you look past him to her, the smile on her face. And you took his hand. 

You’d been dating for a while when Ransom suggested couples therapy. Pretty much as soon as you’d moved in together. It was a nice break. Six months not seeing each other every minute of every day. He picked you up on real dates. You’d gone to real movies. You’d taken real walks in a real park. You had after dinner drinks at a real bar. One which you’d remembered he had ignored you in what seemed like a lifetime ago. 

Julia had just gone to bed. She had a soccer game in the morning. He’d suggested it while you were getting ready for bed. A box of his clothes sat still packed in the corner. The last box. One you hadn’t quite gotten to yet. 

“There’s nothing wrong,” He defended. “I just think that it would keep us in a healthy relationship.” And you agreed. He was happy you agreed. He didn’t want you to think that he felt as though there were problems. Other than him leaving his dirty socks and coffee mugs around the two of you hadn’t had much of a disagreement.

Yet. 

Dowd was kind enough to still make house calls, something Ransom was fortunate for. He was working hard getting his next novel out. Deadline coming on quick as the two of you sat in a session where the Doctor looked at you and said, 

“He’s treated you fairly poorly over the last two years.” Ransom felt offended. Dowd was supposed to be on his side, but he came out the gate swinging. It didn’t stop it being true. 

You opened and closed your mouth. “I wouldn’t say…” You rubbed your hands down your thighs, drying the sweat on your palms. 

“It’s not okay.” Dowd responded. “We both know him, we know how far he’s come.” He gestured to Ransom and Ransom nodded. 

“He’s right baby.” A hand on your thigh in a way Ransom hoped was comforting. “The way I treated you is not okay. I’ve made a lot of bad decisions.” You sat awkwardly. Ransom wondered if you were beginning to regret this. 

“But Ransom, honey, I just–” You looked so nervous, sinking down into the couch, your eyes fixed on Dowd. “You’ve changed so much, and you’ve never really been…” You gestured with your hands. “You’re a victim of circumstance.” You began, “I don’t believe that if you’d had loving parents you would have ever been in the situation you were in… not that you know, nature versus nurture and I just think, I don’t know, maybe… “

“It’s okay.” Dowd put a hand out. “Listen, this is a lot to start with and it’s okay. We don’t have to get too far into it. The next session I would like to have both of you write a letter to each other, something about how the last two years have affected your life. I think that’s where we should start.” 

Intermingling breaths and hips pushed into the kitchen table, loud moans echoing in the kitchen as Ransom sinks himself into you over and over. “So fucking hot baby.” He breathes. “So fucking hot,” He hitched your leg up onto the table, enabling him to go deeper. “You’ll do anything for me, wont you?” He asked. His snapping hard against your perfect ass, hands roughly gripping the globes, tinted red by the palm of his hand. 

“Yes,” You moaned roughly, “Anything.” Ransom moaned, reaching a hand down to steadily rub your clit, so wet for him. Only him. 

“I love you so fucking much.” He moaned, hips beginning to falter as you came around him. Pussy contracting, milking his cock as he released inside the condom, panting. 

“I love you too.” You whispered heavily into the room. Both of you trying to catch your breath. 

“Thank you for doing this for me.” His fingers tracing softly down your bare spine. “I know it makes you uncomfortable.” He watched as you pulled your discarded shirt back on, shifting your leggings back up your hips as he discarded his condom, pulling his sweats back up over his own. 

“I think it’ll be good for us,” You said, “In the long run.” He nods in agreement. 

“I would hate for us to turn out like my parents.” He whispered. 

“We’re not ever going to be like your parents.” You assured him, gripping his hand softly. 

“I don’t want you to resent me in twenty years.” He looked into your eyes, searching as you replied,

“You think we’ll be together in twenty years?” You asked. He rolled his eyes as you let a watery laugh part your lips. He pressed his lips tightly against yours, fingers tangled in your hair. 

“I sure as hell hope so.” 

The sessions continued. One a month. Each month. 

The two of you worked together to make this relationship work. You tried hard. You grew and you grew together. 

“I think we’d be pretty good parents.” He said once. A few weeks before the marriage proposal. It got the both of you hot for it. The idea. Not something you’d been planning on acting on anytime soon but when he was balls deep inside your tight wet pussy he couldn’t help but imagine you swelling with his child, breasts heavy, firm belly pressing against him as he thrust inside you. 

He was hot for it, always. 

And you were thinking of it too. You’d spin your engagement ring around your finger and stare at him wistfully, tongue coming out to wet your lower lip. 

You were riding him. Hips circling on top of his, panting and moaning. Your body glistening with sweat. Hands curled in your hair, back arched. “You gonna give me a baby?” You asked. He nodded, panting, he wanted to thrust into you but he couldn’t help but love the way you looked right now. Chasing your own release. Selfish. Wanting. 

He fucking loved it. 

You held his wrists to the bed, using your knees to rock back and forth on top of him as you pressed your lips to his. A whisper against his lips. “You gonna cum inside me?” You moaned. 

“Yes, baby.” He braced his feet against the bed grinding his hips against yours, rubbing your clit against his pubic bone until you were shuddering on top of him, moaning into his mouth with your release. You collapse against his chest, his arms coming to wrap around your waist, his braced feet giving him the leverage he needed to fuck you. His hips starting a punishing rhythm. The loud slap of his thighs meeting yours filling the room. 

“I can’t wait.” He breathes, “I love you so fucking much.” Your choked moans did him in, his release spilling inside you, not willing to let you go quite yet as the two of you stilled. The sweat covering your bodies began to chill you. 

“I love you too.” 

The wedding was small. Springtime. For months after the proposal and very quiet. Neither of you had very much family and fewer friends. A small group in your backyard. A cake from your favorite bakery. Promises of a bright future and a new life. Here, together. 

You’d feel the flutter in your belly a few months after that.


	5. baby blues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the fifth and final part to the assistant series. domestic life with ransom.

It’s a boy.

Just. Like. Him.

Just like he was.

Standing in the doorway in a pressed dark blue tux, brown shined shoes. Hair combed neatly to the side, nose upturned and a corsage in plastic grasped in one hand, the other in his pocket.

Ransom didn’t like him, and by the way you looked at him as you stood off to the side, hands pressing against your back to give yourself from relief from your swollen stomach, you didn’t like him either.

But it didn’t matter.

Julia looked beautiful. A deep burgundy prom dress, hair pinned and curled. It erased the fact that this scumbag was her date. Ransom’s fists clenched hard ready to threaten the kid, “She’ll be back by when?” He bit.

The boy swallowed, “Ten.” 

“If I hear about anything,” Ransom stood to his chest, “and I mean anything inappropriate…” the threat hung empty in the air. 

“Ransom.” You’d called. Julia floated down the stairs on shaky legs, heels she had been practicing wearing all week. She was smiling and the boy was forgotten. 

“Awww honey,” You cooed, eyes wet with tears. “You’re so beautiful.” 

“Absolutely stunning,” Ransom agreed, hand held out as she almost tripped down the last two steps. The boy stood awkwardly to the side, smiling when Julia smiled at him. 

Ransom stood glaring over Julia’s shoulder at the boy. Her back turned to him while the boy slipped the corsage on her wrist in their large entryway. You were taking pictures off to the side, candidly. 

“Have fun.” You smiled. Ransom knew you didn’t like the boy, you didn’t trust him, but you trusted your sister. And that’s what mattered. Ransom however, if he could have chaperoned the prom he would have. Teachers only. He knows, he tried. 

They’d met this prissy rich boy a few weeks ago. Julia has brought him home giggling and shy. “This is Nick.” She said to the two of you. You’d asked him to stay for dinner, that’s when Ransom decided he didn’t like him. 

“Leave the door open!” He shouted as Julia dragged the teenage boy up to her room after the four of you ate the lovely lasagne that you’d made, that’s when you decided you didn’t like him. The grin on his face. You both knew. 

The two of you had discussed it, it’s not that you wanted to keep Julia from having sex. Virginity wasn’t really a big deal and whenever she was ready the both of you trusted her to be responsible. You’d bought her condoms and reasoned with Ransom’s anger, “If she’s going to do it anyway, she might as well be safe about it.” He couldn’t really argue with your logic, but the two kids had been dating for a little while now and if Ransom remembered his prom night correctly it ended with a hotel room by the beach and ten too many cups of jungle juice. His stomach turned with the thought.

You both trusted Julia. You did.

She was a good kid.

Nick. He was a different story.

Ransom did his research, the kid came from a wealthy family. Trust fund. Grades are average, sure enough he’ll probably get Ivy League on his parents’ dime. A Harvard Legacy. This kid was every piece of shit friend Ransom ever had in his life and he’ll be damned if the kid gets the chance to hurt Julia just as he’d hurt so many girls in his own life.

A press of a kiss to his cheek, Julia’s burgundy painted lips, “Relax.” Her sweet smile. She was so excited for this. He smiled for her and they took pictures together. Ransom snapped one of the two sisters. A none so gentle squeeze to Nick’s shoulder and a harsh repeated, 

“Ten.” And the two teens were hopping in the back of the limo Nick’s parents had rented for them. 

“Hey.” You smelled so sweet, a diamond shimmering on your finger. Gentle touches to his face, turning him from where he was still glaring at the receding rear lights. “She’ll be fine.” A heavy sigh left his chest. “Help me take a bath.” 

Anything for you.

Julia would call if she needed him. She’s a good girl. She can take care of herself. And she’ll be home by ten.

You were heavily pregnant. Ransom claimed you were glowing, but honestly you couldn’t see it. Your face was puffy, ankles swollen at least they were when you could see them. The baby was sitting on your bladder at all times and you couldn’t sleep comfortably at all. 

You thought lack of sleep was supposed to start after the baby, not during these last few months.

It had been an accident, truly. The two of you mutually agreed that you’d wait at least another year to have a baby. No matter how badly the both of you wanted it. You’d only been married a few months when, after a night of drinking and dancing at a local salsa club, you’d found each other sweaty and wanting. Condom forgotten. 

Just one time wouldn’t hurt could it? It took some people so long to get pregnant and you’ve accidentally forgotten a condom before. Nothing had come from it. But a few weeks later when you missed your period you thought it was from stress, the book launch, the press tour. 

But then you began feeling a little nauseous, not in the way they show you in the movies where the girl is mid-sentence and pukes into a trash can, but a loss of appetite. Stomach rolling here or there. You couldn’t walk by the fish in the farmers market anymore. You finally vacated your guts over a tuna melt Ransom had insisted he was craving. 

It was embarrassing, that poor waiter who cleaned up your vomit got a nice $100 bill stuffed in his shirt pocket and about a thousand apologies. And a few tears. 

You’d thought about it. 

Really thought about it.

You checked your tracking app.

You knew you were late but didn’t realize it was that late. You’d found out early, seven weeks along. Almost two months.

“You’re fucking joking.” Ransom laughed, “No fucking way.” 

“Yes fucking way,” You’d just gone to the doctor to make sure. A sonogram between you. A little bean.

His eyes watery, looking down at the little black and white photo. “You sure it’s mine?” You scoffed, punching him in the arm. Making him laugh again and pull you into his side, pressing his lips tightly against yours. “I love you.” Whispered against your lips. 

“I love you too.” A hand pressed against your tummy, the picture was pinned above his desk. 

“Mmmm fuck.” You moaned, back pressed almost painfully into the sink, leg over Ransom’s shoulder as his tongue took you apart. On his knees on the tile, tub filling with water, so close. You’re so close. 

And so sensitive. 

His hand was splayed wide over your belly. He moaned into your cunt. 

He’d felt insatiable ever since he’d found out you were pregnant. His minor breeding kink giving way to the fact that his own fucking offspring was now growing in your stomach. Something that was irrevocably his. 

Something that he was deathly afraid of.

But that was another thing he was working on in therapy. It was shelved when he was in between your thighs, hand on your ever growing belly. He wanted it so badly, but it scared the shit out of him.

He’s brought up his own father, recently. In therapy. As a kid he wanted to be like his father. He was fun. He did fun grown up things. He drank. He played golf. He had lots of friends. A naive image of what was really going on. 

A memory. The way he screamed at Ransom to leave him alone. Get out. Go away. Get the fuck out of here Hugh. 

Hugh.

It’s what his Dad called him when he was angry. 

He was always angry. He played nice in front of friends and family but that whiskey in his fist really packed a punch. Especially at Ransom’s expense. 

Ransom hated his father. He remembers the fear in your eyes. The first and last time he grabbed you a little too hard. The hand shaped bruise taunted him for weeks afterward. You were the only person who cared about him, and he hurt you. He had not been quite as bad as his father but it’s a slow progression right? 

A hard grab led to a slap. A slap to a punch. And what then? He’d imagined beating you to submission underneath his fists. He’d thrown up. He could never do that. Especially not to you.

Truth be told he was never a very violent person. The whiskey made his hands loose. Throwing dishes, furniture. That was another step too, Dowd had told him. A marker for abuse. 

He tries hard. But the guilt is still in his gut. Faded from years of practice. Years of talking it through. Holding onto whatever ails him until his session and spewing it all over Dowd’s feet. 

You’d been so sympathetic. Always so compassionate—empathetic, when you’d found him crying in his office. “You’re not going to be like Richard love, I don’t believe that.” 

Eyes blankly staring at the new sonogram. Little toes and fists curled. “How do I do this?” He asked. “I don’t know how to do this.” You huffed, blowing hair out of your face, 

“Neither do I.” You had gripped his arm gently, pulling his hand to your lips before holding it to your chest. “We’ll learn together, just like we learned everything else together.” 

It wasn’t easy. Launching a publishing company. Not in the slightest. Yes, you’d gone to business school and yes, Ransom’s family had already been in the business but it was hard. 

A year out it was still hard and you were finally seeing green after time spent reading manuscripts and finding new faces to publish. A year after launch you’ve found a promising fantasy writer whose young adult novel was doing fairly well and a biographer who was currently in depth working their way through a list of not so well known serial killers. 

But the money had finally started rolling in from your little startup and you were finally doing okay. You’d started looking at office buildings. 

Ransom’s tongue was masterful. The first time he’d gotten on his knees for you, he’d told you he never got on his knees for anyone, but he loved how blissed out you’d look. How shaky your legs would get. He loved the press of your thighs against his head and your fingers tugging on his grown out hair. 

You moaned and quakes above him, carefully balanced with your leg over his shoulder, hand splayed on belly and back to help stabilize you as his tongue worked against your sensitive clit. Nipples puffy and dark. You came on his tongue, the aftershocks worked through with steady licks and his own appreciative moans as he consumed you. 

He leaned over, dropping your leg and pressing a kiss to your belly he shut the tub off. The water stilling in the large soaking tub he’d had placed in your master bath. Your knuckles gripped the counter as you caught your breath, the little life inside you giving two steady kicks to let you know they were awake. 

Ransom’s brow was slightly furrowed as he placed two towels on the toilet seat before pulling his shirt over his head, “She’ll be fine love.” You tried to assure him as he stripped himself of his pants.

“I don’t like that kid,” He said, “I know that kid. I was that kid.” You nodded understanding to the side as he finished getting undressed, holding a hand out to you. 

“She’s smart.” You explained as he stepped into the tub, helping you over the side. His hands felt your waist, helping you sit down in the water and settle back against his chest. “If he tries to do anything she doesn’t want she knows how to handle it. She’ll call if she needs us.” His hands placed wide over your belly. He sighed, 

“I know… I just…”

“It’s okay to worry.” You closed your eyes and leaned your head back, finally feeling the knots in your back loosen. “She’ll call us if she needs us.”

There was no event. 

Julia came home a few minutes after ten, face flushed and hair mussed. Her heels in her hand, the bottoms of her soles black with dirt. “Did you have a good time?” You asked her. You were curled up on Ransom’s chest, episodes of Brooklyn-99 playing idly in the background while the two of you were talking about what color to paint to nursery. She smiled, coming to curl up against you, the three of you in a semi-dogpile. Her head on your chest.

“I had the best time.” She sighed happily. “My feet hurt though, and I think someone spiked the punch cause I feel a little woozy.” You press a hand to her forehead, damp with sweat. Ransom had tensed underneath you. On occasion, you’ve let her have a glass of wine. Christmas or Thanksgiving. But only recently, and she would be satisfied with that. A responsible girl. 

“How many did you have?” He asked. She shrugged,

“One or two.” You lay a hand on his knee, rubbing soothingly.

“Are you okay?” You asked her and her smiling face looked up at you,

“Yeah, I’m tired though. Probably just going to take a shower and go to bed.” Neither of you asked about Nick. Because neither of you really cared. 

He placed his hand over yours on his knee, “She’s home and she’s safe.” You whispered to him, pressing your lips against his neck. He hummed in response, the gears in his head. “Stop thinking so hard. She’ll be okay.” He gave you a forced smile, pressing his lips to your forehead before returning his attention to the show. 

Ransom liked doing things with his hands. 

Sometimes.

He still paid someone to clean the house, to tend the garden, general upkeep. But when it came to putting his child’s crib together he’d taken on that task by himself. Brow taught as he looked at the pictures in the booklet packed in the wooden convertible crib you’d been so eager about. 

“These don’t make any sense.” He said, rubbing his forehead. The packet seemed to be in any language but English and his voice was angry behind you as you painted swatches on the wall. A pale gray, a soft green, a pastel yellow, an eggshell white. You turned to him, watching him screw two pieces of wood together, the lengths snapping together in satisfaction. 

“We could have paid someone to do that,” You joked, “It did say expert assembly required.” Ransom rolled his eyes, glaring at you from the floor.

“I can do it.” You laughed, 

“Okay, then do it.” Maybe a feature wall. White and then one of the other colors? A few more struggles behind you and a harsh gasp. Your head snapped over to look at him as he sucked his fingers into his mouth. He’d missed the nail and hit them. 

“Don’t say anything.” He mumbled, sore ego pulsing in the room. You shrugged and continued with your painting. Maybe a design? A couple animal stencils or something? Nautical? 

Three days. 

It took him three days, a couple of bruised fingers, a slightly bruised ego, and about twenty ‘fuck’s later that the crib sat perfectly assembled in the middle of the room. 

“Not bad,” You mused, handing him a glass of wine. He took a slow sip, still glaring at the dark wood monstrosity, “I think you deserve a reward.” His eyebrow quirked at that, a grin splitting his lips as he turned to you, placing the glass of wine on the tall dresser next to him before leaning down to capture your lips with his, fingers immediately going down to tweak your overly sensitive nipples. 

You moaned into his mouth as he walked you down the hallway, giggling as the two of you bumped off of opposing walls before finally stumbling into your bedroom and locking the door, Julia had walked in on you exactly once and it would never happen again.

You back met the plush mattress and you immediately felt uncomfortable, “Hold on,” Ransom stood up, concerned. “Just my sciatic nerve,” You rolled to the side, arms reaching out for him. “Come back.” 

“Are you okay?” He asked, rubbing a hand on your back, your hands met your leggings, shimmying them best you could over your hips, getting them caught around your knees.

“I’m fine, just help me.” You whined, he laughed, peeling your leggings the rest of the way down and coming to lay behind you, grabbing a pillow for your head. His hips met your bare ass, the soft material of his joggers gave way to the hard outline of his dick, the drawstring undone while he pressed his lips to yours, then down your neck. 

A hand over your hip, he lifted your leg to wedge one between the two of you, “Is this okay?” He asked, rubbing the tip of his dick against your folds. You were so wet already, horny from all the hormones.

“Yes,” You placed your hand over his as it drifted to your belly, the tip of his dick breeching your entrance as you both moaned. His fingers drifted down to your clit as he began to rock into you, steady pants filling the quiet of the room. 

“I love you so much baby,” He whispered as you whimpered into the pillow, orgasm coming on surprisingly fast, he shifted his hips to press his cock against a well sought out spot inside you, one that instantly makes your toes curl and mouth parting in a gasp. Eyes rolling back in your head as your pussy clenches around him in orgasm, legs tending and curling up against your belly as he quickly found his release behind you. 

“I love you too.” You breathed as his hips shuddered, working through his aftershocks. He curled himself tightly against your back, hand leaving your mound to splay wide over your belly, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, then neck, then cheek. 

“I can’t believe you’re mine.” 

It was a boy.

Just. Like. Him.

Screaming until he was placed gently on the skin of your chest, tears streaming down the sides of your face. A snotty nose, sweet, hellos whispered as he smacked his lips and nuzzled his cheek against your chest. The sweet little baby you’d just spent twenty hours in labor for. Your watery eyes met Ransom’s. His hand coming to lay gently on the back of his son.

“Thank you,” You murmured, exhaustion and adrenaline slowly wearing off. His lips pressing softly to yours as your hand covered his on your baby’s back. “Thank you for this.” 

He held his son. For the first time. The sleepy little boy in his arms, perfect little nose, lips. Ten fingers, ten toes. His milky blue eyes looked up at him when he’d first picked him up from the little bassinet next to the bed. You slept peacefully there. Just a few minutes before you’d had the sweet little babe suckling for the first time. An excited expression on your face that turned a little sour as the baby gummed at your nipples and that made Ransom laugh. 

The two of you watched him take his fill, a little sweet burp to which Ransom whispered a “Good job.” Before taking him from your arms and placing him down for a moment to press his forehead to yours. “You did a good job too Mom.” A kiss against your lips. “I’ll be here when you wake up.” 

“Henry.” He whispered to his boy, “Dowd is gonna get a kick out of this, huh kid?” The little boy made no response, milk drunk and sleepy. He cooed, squirmed a bit in his swaddle, before falling still again. His little chest rising and falling.

Ransom was scared shitless. 

What if this kid turns out like he did? All the fucking money they had now. Julia was a good kid though, but she wasn’t always so well off. What if he fucks this up too? You were the only thing that held him together for such a long time, what if he fucks everything up now and he loses everything? What if… the baby starts crying. Little Henry. His tiny little newborn lungs expanding and shaking you from sleep. 

Your hands reached out for him and Ransom, while fear rose in his chest, he was reluctant to let go of him. The small babe comforted himself against your chest, unswaddled with his skin against yours once again. “You okay?” You asked. His face pale as he looked from the baby to you. He took a deep shuddering breath, sitting next to you on the bed. The reality of all of this setting in. A soft hand on his cheek.

“This is just so scary,” He places a hand on his baby’s back. The softest skin he’s ever felt. “I’m sorry, I love you so much. I’m just…” freaking out.

“I’m scared too love.” Your thumb brushed his cheekbone. “One day at a time.” You’ve never looked more beautiful. A little chub to your cheeks, eyes puffy from crying and lips that he wanted to never stop kissing. Always. Hair messy in a bun, strays around your face and neck. 

“One day at a time.”

Whoever said you’d never sleep again after having a kid was not lying. The first couple months were hell. Once, Ransom had left the house to go take care of something at the publishing house and when he came home found you sitting on the kitchen floor holding Henry and crying while the baby wailed at the top of his lungs. 

“I can’t get him to stop.” You sobbed, handing the babe over. 

“Go lay down for a bit baby,” He helped you from the floor and pulled you into his chest with one arm, pressing a kiss to your hair, “When’s the last time he ate?” You shrugged against him, 

“Probably an hour ago.” But you’d pumped and there were bags in the fridge. 

“Go take a nap baby,” He soothed, “I can do this for a while.” He watched your retreating form walk up the stairs slowly before turning his attention back to his wailing son. “C’mon kid, she’s dealing with a lot.” He said, “Why are you crying?” He walked to sit down on the couch, settling in and toeing his shoes off before unbuttoning his shirt with one hand, taking the onesie off of Henry and laying the babe on his chest before rubbing his back. 

He turned the tv on as the wailing tapered off, “Is this what you wanted?” He patted Henry’s bottom as the baby quieted finally thirty minutes after he’d gotten home, the news playing softly in the background. You were able to sleep for almost three hours then, walking down the stairs around dinner time to see Ransom standing above the stove stirring pasta while Julia babbled to the little baby in its rocker on top of the island.

“You hungry?” He asked with a wide smile. You nodded, coming behind him at the stove to wrap your arms around his waist, one of his hands laying over yours as he stirred the sauce.

You whispered into his back, “Thank you.” 

Henry was growing, and fast. His chubby cheeks filling in, eyes becoming clearer by the day until they rested in Ransom’s likeness. The kid was his, there was no doubt about it. He looked so much like Ranson you wondered if the kid was even yours or if Ransom had just used you as an incubator. 

His little coos grew into loud belly laughs. Ransom playing peekaboo with him as you came home from work one day, the giggling boy in his high chair face mussed with puréed sweet potatoes. Ransom grinned as the boy kicked his legs, opening his mouth wide as Ransom mimicked airplane sounds before spooning the sweet potato into his mouth, one tooth beginning to poke through his gums. 

Your son looked at you and kicked his legs harder, beginning to fuss. “Hello love.” You pressed a kiss to his forehead, “Did you have fun today?” Henry blew a raspberry, hands reaching out for you. Ransom set the empty jar down on the counter as you picked up your son, walking to the sink to grab a rag to wipe his face. 

“He’s standing a little better.” Ransom came behind you and lay a hand on Henry’s head and another on your hip. Placing a kiss to your cheek. 

“Are you?” You asked Henry, smiling. “Are you standing?” You went to place him on the kitchen floor, his legs holding himself up as he grabbed the side of the cabinet, using it to walk himself over to you.

“Three steps without support right?” Ransom asked. “Then he’s walking?” You looked up at him and nodded,

“Yeah.” 

After Henry’s birth you’d been having some depression issues. It wasn’t something Ransom had brought up too much but it had come up in couples therapy soon after the birth and was something the two of you were very aware of. 

“Are you feeling okay?” Dowd asked, leaning back in his chair and sipping on the cup of tea you’d placed before him.

You sighed heavily, leaning into Ransom, you looked up at him for a moment, before looking back at the Doctor.

“I don’t know.” You said, “I love Henry, I do, I’m just…” You shrugged, “I can’t move sometimes.” You nervously twisted your rings around your finger. “I don’t want to do anything, I have no motivation to do anything.” Your voice trailed off as a whisper. “Am I a bad Mom?” 

“No,” Ransom instantly protested, “Of course you’re not.” His hand rubbing your back. 

“It’s not uncommon for women to suffer some level of postpartum depression.” Dowd added, “What you’re feeling is perfectly normal. Do you feel like you’re bonding with your baby?” You nodded,

“I think so.” You tugged your bottom lip between your teeth, “I love him, I would never want to hurt him or anything it’s just….” you gesturing with your hands, “I’m just having a hard time adjusting.” 

Dowd nodded, taking his glasses off, “When we had our first, my wife became very depressed.” He explained, “And back then it wasn’t something that was very talked about and there weren’t any books on it, nor was there anyone to tell us that what Alice felt was okay and normal and she should just talk to someone about it. 

People have this stigma about new Mothers and how they should feel about their babies. It’s ideal that you’ll have this child and everything will be okay all sunshine and rainbows, but in reality the sleepless nights, paired with depression, and the stress of a newborn can really hurt you if you don’t talk about it. It’s hard. Having a child is hard. And you have to know that you have a good support system. 

Your husband does everything he’s supposed to. You’re doing everything you’re supposed to. Even if you think you’re not a good enough Mother, even if you think that you could do better, you’re doing an amazing job. And the way you’ve been taking care of this one over here proves that you can do anything.” Gesturing towards Ransom with a cheeky grin on his face. 

Tears had been rolling down your cheeks and you grabbed a tissue, wiping them as you leaned forward. Ransom’s hand never stalling on your back.

“Would you like me to prescribe you some antidepressants? Just for a little while?” The Doctor asked. You felt yourself nod and settle back against Ransom. He pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“You’re an excellent Mother.” He whispered to you, holding you close. But you weren’t so sure.

Baby’s first Christmas you didn’t want to make a huge deal of. But Ransom was never like that. The amount of toys and clothes he’d bought behind your back for the little angel who was now 11 months old was ridiculous. Especially because he didn’t even know how to open them. Julia and Ransom sat on the floor of the den under the large Christmas tree, peeling pieces of paper back for Henry to grab at. The little boy standing shakily between his Father’s legs and tearing a piece of wrapping paper off before playing with the small piece between his fingers. 

You snapped a picture on your phone, sipping on your coffee, brand new slippers on your feet and a small pile of presents you’d yet to open for yourself beside you. He fell on his bottom as Julia peeled back more of the wrapping paper, revealing yet another toy. A little toy kitchen that Ransom would surely be putting together in about thirty minutes along with the toy supermarket and the little truck that he could sit on and push with his feet. 

“Open yours.” You said to him, slipping from the chair to sit on the rug, Henry wobbling on shaky legs over to you before sitting in your lap, still waving a piece of wrapping paper around. Ransom lifted a small box and shook it. A soft rattling inside. He tore the wrapping paper from around it and lifted the lid of the box. 

“You’re pregnant?” He asked skeptically. Lifting the little framed ultrasound you’d gotten the week before. You rolled your eyes,

“Guess who’s gonna be a big brother?” You cooed to the boy in your lap, tickling his tummy. Ransom leaned across the presents and kissed you. 

“I can’t believe it.” Forehead pressed against yours, “I love you so much.” You hummed into his kiss, 

“I love you too.”

His sons were so much better than he ever thought they’d be. Henry and Nathan. They were almost 2 years apart in age, and stayed close their entire childhood. 

The first time Henry saw Nathan he’d smacked him, the almost two year old Henry didn’t do it on purpose, so he said. But the wailing of the newborn meeting his ears steered him from doing it again. 

He wasn’t happy at first, having to share attention and make room for a new baby though you tried to include him in everything you could. Tantrums ensued, they were called the terrible twos for a reason right? It wasn’t uncommon to find Henry throwing himself on the floor because Mommy was feeding Nathan and he wanted his green cup not his purple cup. Or he wanted Daddy to take him outside and push him on the swing but it was snowing and he needed to put Nathan down for a nap.

But there were also moments where Henry would hold Nathan and talk to him about all of his toys. Tell him the names of all of his stuffed animals and babble to him about how they’ll get a tree house to share and how Aunt Julia is going to take them to Boston to go see a baseball game. 

Nathan loved Henry. As much as a little brother could. When he first could walk he would waddle behind his big brother, he learned to talk by mimicking his brother’s words. He learned habits from his brother. When Henry became obsessed with legos, so did Nathan. When Henry wanted to wear his green striped shirt, so did Nathan. And when Henry wanted to go down the slide really fast, so did Nathan.

Which is why you were sitting in the ER getting your now two year old son’s arm in a cast while your four year old sat at home with his father. Nathan had just finished crying. The Doctor had let him pick out the powder blue cast that was currently drying on his arm. His face turned into your shoulder as you talked to Ransom on your phone, 

“We should be home soon.” You said, “Did you wanna talk to Daddy?” You asked Nathan, his puffy face looking up at yours. He nodded softly and you shifted the phone to his ear.

“Hi Daddy.” He whimpered. It broke your heart. His eyes that matched yours red and puffy from crying for the past hour. The Doctor had given him some medicine to ease the pain a bit but you knew he must still be hurting. The poor kid. 

You’d looked away for a second. And in that second Nathan, going down a slide he’s gone down many times before, had fallen over the side and snapped his ulna. “I want pizza.” He cried. You stifled a laugh, the little thing crying to his Dad in order to get some pizza, a treat you usually only ordered once a month or so. “And and and ice cream.” Blubbering now. You were sure Ransom was cooing from the other side, assuring his son they were gonna have pizza and ice cream for dinner tonight. 

His chubby fingers handed you back your phone, “So pizza and ice cream?” Ransom chuckled from the other end of the line,

“I think he deserves it, don’t you?” You tugged your bottom lip between your teeth, brushing Nathan’s hair out of his eyes.

“I think at this point he could get whatever he wanted.” You laughed. Nathan kicked his feet as he waited for you to get off the phone. 

“You can get whatever you want too,” His voice suddenly husky.

“Later.” You laughed, “Right now I’m more concerned about your son’s cast drying.”

“Is he really okay?” Ransom asked, concern lacing his voice. You nodded, 

“Yeah, he’ll be fine.” And he was. Once the cast dried, Henry drew a bunch of little pictures on it and Nathan’s belly was full of pepperoni pizza and chocolate ice cream he was just fine.

Belle, the sweet little pit bull that Ransom had gotten Julia for Christmas five years ago loved your boys. When you’d first brought Henry home she lay under his crib every night. She followed him around the house when he was learning how to walk and now that Julia was off at college and the boys were sharing a room, “It’ll be good for their bonding Ransom.” She slept between them on the floor. 

Sometimes she’d pick a bed, but for the most part she slept on the floor, only rousing when Ransom would wake up and open their door to let her out into the yard in the morning. The sweet girl had calmed significantly from the young pup she had been when Henry was first born. She’d accidentally knocked him on his ass once or twice, licking him to make up for it. Baby giggles mixing with her snorts of happiness as she attacked him with kisses. 

It was much the same with Nathan. Her trodding around the house after the two boys, their sweaters stretched out over her body and Mommy’s makeup in her fur one afternoon where you’d fallen asleep on the couch when they had been playing quietly in their room. 

Too quiet, you should have known. They’d woken from their nap and found your purse, left on the bench at the end of your bed, a bright red tube of lipstick peeking out. They couldn’t resist. 

The red lipstick stained the wall, but not their skin as you bathed them an hour afterward before giving Belle a bath too. The boys giggling as they explained to you that Belle wanted to wear the lipstick and how funny it tasted. 

Once you’d caught Ransom at the receiving end of a tube of lipstick. The boys claiming they wanted to make him pretty like Mommy, but cackling all the same as you took a picture of their sleeping Father with lipstick smeared across his face. 

At least it wasn’t sharpie. 

Henry’s first day of school was really hard for Nathan. Henry and Nathan cried, holding each other in the classroom. The three year old thinking he was never going to see his brother again, which made the five year old think he was never going to see his family again. Which gave Ransom a migraine and made you tear up so both boys thought it was true. 

“We are go to come back and see you in a little bit, okay?” You said as steadily as possible, Ransom picking Nathan up from the ground and letting the riddle bury his face in his neck. Henry cried harder, his little backpack held in front of him by both hands. 

“I don’t want to stay here.” He cried, looking around the room at the other kids, some with puffy eyes, some not. Ransom crouched down in front of him, holding Nathan tightly. 

“It’s only for a little bit, you’ll have a lot of fun.” Random soothed, “I promise.” Henry shook his head, not believing it.

“No.” He stomped his foot. 

“Henry.” You said firmly, gently grabbing his arm. “You’re gonna play some games and then we are gonna come get you in a little bit, look…” You gestured to a couple other kids with equally puffy eyes, some still crying. “They’re scared too, but you know I would never do anything to hurt you right?” Henry wiped his eyes with a balled fist and nodded. “Now, you’re such a good game player, how about you help them play the games you’re going to play today to make them feel better? Just like you help Nate.” 

Henry seemed to resolve, thinking about it before nodding. Nathan stepped down from his Father’s shoulder, turning to hug his brother again. The three of you pulling together to give Henry one last hug before you left him in the classroom. His teacher promising to call if there were any issues. 

His first day without Henry was hard. Nate found himself doing all the things he did with Henry, but just alone. The two of you giving him a little extra attention and trying to play the little games that he’d usually play with Henry, Ransom leaving to write a couple more chapters of his book midway through the day before returning to let you go meet your sister for a late lunch before picking Henry up from school.

He babbled about his first day, exclaiming about his friend Katie he’d met who really liked Spider-Man too. Raving about her all through dinner much to Nate’s jealousy. The little tod grew shy with his brother that night, the two boys hardly interacting in the bath, but Ransom and you figured all was resolved when he’d gone in to let Belle out the next morning and the two were snuggled up in Nate’s bed together.

He’d snapped a picture to send you later. 

Nathan soon became a middle child. The two of you welcoming a baby girl, Charlie. Ransom thanked every star in the sky that she looked just like you. Chest pressed against your back as the two of you rocked back and forth in the kitchen. Lips pressed against your neck as the sweet little thing cooed in your arms. 

Henry and Nathan found themselves attached to you more than ever after Charlie was born, whereas she attached herself to Ransom. The two boys when they first met their sister, Henry cried because she was so small, Nathan cried because he wasn’t a baby anymore. And he really wanted to be a baby. He had a little jealous streak in him when he watched you breastfeed Charlie. 

He began throwing small tantrums and had once said he hated her, only apologizing later to her sleeping in her crib which you heard over the baby monitor. Ransom and you laying in bed listening to your sweet boy coo, 

“I didn’t mean it, okay? I love you, okay?” A finger stuck in her little fist. You pressed your lips to Ransom’s as you heard him pad back to his room, shutting the door behind him.

“Are you doing okay?” Ransom asked. You nodded, snuggling closer into his chest. There was a lingering depression, but you were coping. You’d always gotten a little blue after you’d had a baby. It was to be expected, but the medicine paired with the continuing therapy both of you were doing helped a great deal. 

Ransom had been really supportive, “Yeah I’m doing alright.” He tilted your face up to his, kissing you softly, pressing your body back into the mattress. His hands grazed your soft belly, the stretch marks were permanent now, breasts sagged a bit more from the continuing breastfeeding, but he still told you,

“You’re so fucking beautiful.” Just about every day. And he made you feel that way, when he would press you into the mattress like this.

The way his body would mold with yours, hands roaming and lips trailing down your body. His tongue lapping at your pussy while you squirm above him, hips bucking against his face, fingers tangled in his hair as he tore you apart. 

He’d press his cock into you, stroking you from the inside, your hot breath mingling as he shifted your legs over his arms, bottoming out against you and groaning as he swiveled his hips. 

There was something so beautiful about this. Having been together for almost seven years now, the intimacy of knowing each other’s bodies in a way that only came with practice. He knew how to make you cum, and he knew if he swiveled his hips in a certain way it would make your eyes roll back. He knew the way to position your legs to let himself hit your sweet spot every time and this practiced act helped you out many times between naps and feedings.

Sex bent over the washing machine while the boys watched Sesame Street in the living room.

Sex in the kitchen while the boys were taking a nap.

Sex in a hotel on your anniversary while Julia watched the boys at home. Where you could really take your time. That last anniversary was the one that gave you Charlie. 

And sex like this, in your bed, kids sleeping and maybe three more hours before Charlie wakes up wanting to eat, just enough time to make you cum twice, his hips stuttering against yours as he found his own release. I love yous pressed against sleepy lips before Ransom would leave the bed in a few hours to warm Charlie’s bottle and change her dirty diaper while he let you sleep.

Ransom was an amazing Father. Something he didn’t get enough credit for. He read every book on parenting he could get his hands on. He tried to be your partner on everything. He let you sleep when you could and loved sitting up with his baby, as much as he could with the lack of sleep, in the little rocking chair you’d spent a pretty penny on in the nursery. 

He often thought about his own absent parents when the two of you had decided to work almost exclusively from home. A hired manager in the office made sure you only went in once or twice a week and even then it was only for a few hours. 

He could do most of his writing from home, but finding that work life balance was hard at first. He was used to sitting in his office for hours on end. It wasn’t until Henry had crawled into his office one day that he realized he didn’t want to make this like his Father’s office. No kids allowed. Get out. I can’t concentrate. 

Henry was a good boy. He played quietly on the floor of his office, babbled a little while he ate his snacks and somehow knew when Ransom was getting frustrated or needed a break because the sweet boy would crawl over to him and tug on his pant leg until Ransom picked him up, settling him on his lap. 

As Henry grew older and Nathan was born the boys seemed more content to have the office doors wide open and flit between the office and the living room, the baby gate preventing them from going upstairs while he worked. The living room in direct eyesight of his desk. He would watch the boys interact. 

He was grateful that they had more than one child. He’d always wanted a sibling, but having parents that hated each other made it impossible. 

Ransom kissed boo boos and built the jungle gym in the backyard, with just as much cursing as he built the first, second, and third crib. He took time out for his kids. He listened to them and he tried not to get angry when they make mistakes. Like when he’d spent an hour putting a manuscript together and the boys thought it would be fun to color on the pages. Or when he’d walked in the kitchen to find the pound of sugar you’d just bought and left on the counter spread over every walk-able surface, the boys digging their fingers in it and scooping it into their mouths. 

He tried. And when his anger got the better of him he’d walk away until he could cool down, taking the steps that Dowd had told him to. Walk away, take a breath, then return to the problem. 

The boys almost looked like twins, with one stark difference. Their eyes. While Henry had Ransom’s, Nate had yours. They liked dressing like they were twins too. What one had the other wanted and vice versa. Ransom figured they were pretty lucky that Henry was a such a good kid because Nathan tried to be just like him. 

The two boys loved baking with you and Ransom was a little jealous of the love they had for you. His eager boys were ready on Mother’s Day to help him make you breakfast. Their little crafts and gifts in hand as they woke you up with kisses, a Happy Mother’s Day, snuggled into your sides as Ransom looked on from the end of the bed. 

“I want a kiss too.” He whined playfully. The boys glared at him, 

“That’s gross,” Henry said, snuggling into your side and picking a piece of bacon up with his fingers. “Mommy only kisses us.”

“Yeah,” Nathan agreed, “Only us.” Ransom crawled up the bed, coming to lay behind Nate, propping his head up on his elbow. 

“That’s not fair,” He said smiling at you, “Why can’t Daddy have kisses?” He leaned over pressing a sloppy wet kiss to Nate’s cheek. The toddler squealing and wiping his slobber off.

“Daddy!” The boy squealed as Ransom pulled him close, tickling his belly. Henry poked his head over your growing belly, Charlie kicking your bladder as Henry climbed over your legs to join in with his Dad and brother in their tickle fight. 

Charlie really loved him though. Daddy’s girl, right? She always seemed to want him. Even right when she was born. She slept better if Ransom put her down. She ate better if Ransom fed her. She began to walk more quickly when she would see him. Your sweet little girl liked sitting in her Dad’s lap while he typed away on his work. Her head on his chest while she napped. 

While both of your boys first words were Mama, hers was obviously Dada. And while your boys were dependent on you and latched onto you as closely as possible, Charlie was vastly independent. She was grabbing the spoon out of your hand to feed herself and as she got older dressed herself as often as she could. Which was fairly often seeing as you liked letting your kids find out their own style. 

Even if their style meant mismatched sweaters and leggings or your favorite, swimsuit plus snow boots plus baseball cap. Which was a repeated outfit to be sure. 

Ransom really found himself with her, not that was wasn’t an amazing father before, but once Charlie came along everything got so much easier for him. This was his third kid with the woman he loves, the third little newborn he fed and burped and changed. The third bout of unconditional love he’d felt that was gifted to him. Something he’d never imagined he’d have.

Before you he’d never been in a real relationship, let alone thought about having kids. Three little stools were set up next to him. Henry, 7. Nate, 5. Charlie, 2. Henry was helping Charlie mix the waffle batter together while Nate and his butter knife was cutting strawberries, “Slow down.” Ransom warned, flipping the bacon in the skillet. The wooden tray sat on the kitchen island behind them, Belle was laying in the rays of sun coming through the back door. Eyes intently watching them just in case any scraps were to fall. 

“Daddy when can we go to the park?” Charlie asked, flour spilling over the side of the bowl. Henry collected it with his hand, throwing it back into the bowl and laying a hand over hers to slow her stirring down.

“We are gonna go after lunch baby.” Ransom brushed some fingers through her tangled hair. Another Mother’s Day. Another breakfast in bed. Charlie playing with you hair while she babbled to you about everything she wanted to do at the park that day. The boys finally breaking out their new bikes they got for Christmas now that the weather was nice.

It was a setting Ransom never thought he’d find himself in. Pushing his daughter on the swing, Henry pedaling his bike around the running path while you walked behind Nate, his little feet uneasy on his pedals. He admired you from afar. The love he felt bloomed in his chest and he thinks about how far the two of you had come. 

Where you started and now where you are. It seems almost unreal. Like he was going to wake up and this was all some sort of sick dream. What did he ever do to deserve any of this? Truthfully he didn’t deserve it, but Dowd always told him to do better. Work hard to deserve it. Work hard to deserve his beautiful wife and his three perfect children. 

Perfect children might have been a little bit of a stretch he thinks while Nate and Charlie scream later, Henry plugging his ears as they cry because their parents wouldn’t stop for ice cream on the way home, but as perfect as they could be.

The two of you hadn’t had any contact with Linda since before the wedding. 

Richard much longer than that, but Linda had made it clear she didn’t approve of Ransom marrying you. You were a means to an end before. Someone she could use to make her son happy, she never actually expected to be stuck with you as she so aptly put it. 

Which is why it was so strange to see her at the grocery store, after being married to her son for almost ten years. Remarkably she looked almost the same, but that’s what money would do for you.

“Y/N!” She yelled, her hands, which your sure had never done this before, were wrapped around the handle of the shopping cart. A few vegetables and a bag of quinoa inside. Your face flushed, having not seen your former employer since right before the wedding you wondered why here? Why now? Why the one day you were wearing ratty old leggings and a sweatshirt you knew had an old stain on the shoulder from one of your babies spit up you hadn’t cleaned fast enough. 

“Linda?” You asked, even though you knew it was her. Your hands gripping the handle of the shopping cart hard enough to turn your knuckles white. “What are you doing here?” And you meant here by the grocery store you’ve visited every week since moving into the house you’d been living in for 11 years. She shrugged, 

“Oh you know, just was driving back to my condo and figured I’d stop in and grab some stuff for dinner.” Her condo. In the city. So why would she stop at a grocery store 30 minutes outside of the city? You hummed in response, tapping your thumbs against the plastic. “You’ve put on weight.” She said with a cheerful smile. Your teeth clenched,

“That’s what three kids would do to you.” You shrugged. A bite back as her smile fell, 

“You have kids now?” She sighed, “Well… with Hugh?” She asked. As if he’d grown a conscience and left you and you’d remarried and had three kids with someone else. You nodded,

“Yup, Ransom and I.” She rocked her cart back and forth, quiet suddenly. She looked at you from behind her glasses, suddenly seeming very old.

“Listen, I uh…” She looked out the front window of the store and then back to you, “Do you have any pictures? Could I… could I see any pictures?” You suddenly felt bad for her. What family did she really have? As far as you could tell she didn’t talk much with Walt or Joni anymore. And without her Father tying everyone together no one met up for holidays or birthday dinners anymore regardless. While Ransom made his own family, Linda lost every bit of hers. 

“She did it to herself,” Ransom would argue later. “She’s the one who chose to distance herself from us.” And while he wasn’t wrong, she deserves a second chance, 

“Everyone deserves a second chance Ransom.” He couldn’t really argue with you there. And he was willing to give her a second chance, 

“I’m letting you do this on one condition.” He said to her as she stood on your porch, three gift bags in her hands. “These are my kids, not yours.” Jaw clenched. “If they don’t want you to hug them, you don’t hug them. If they don’t want to talk to you, they don’t have to talk to you. They’re not going to do anything just to be polite. They’re not going to do anything they don’t want to do. You will also not disrespect their Mother. If you step one toe out of line I’m going to very politely ask you to leave my house, do you understand?” Linda nodded, smiling at her son still.

“I just want to see them.” Ransom nodded, stepping aside and letting his Mother enter your house for the first time. 

It was cozy. Not decorated in the way she would have liked it, and it was well lived in which meant it was too messy for her. But the kids kindly accepted her gifts. The Barbie that had been given to Charlie was quickly traded for the electric truck that had been gifted to Nate. Henry thanked her politely for the magic set she’d bought him, turning to look at you and asking if he could open it now. 

“Dinner will be in thirty minutes, as long as it’s cleaned up by then.” With that the three kids disappeared into the den to play with their new toys. “Do you want a glass of wine Linda?” You’d stepped from the room and into the kitchen, pouring the three of you each a glass of wine as Linda began asking questions. 

How old are they? What school are they going to? Oh I don’t like that school, if you want I could get them into the school I do like. Why was Nate wearing a tutu? Do you really think that’s appropriate? 

“Mom.” Ransom said sternly, he shook his head. After that Linda kept most of her opinions to herself. 

“They’re good kids.” She said to you as she hovered in the doorway. You crossed your arms, looking back at your kids and husband in the den. Henry trying out one of his freshly learned magic tricks on them.

“They are.” Linda nodded, pressing her fingers to her mouth. 

“You two have done a really good job, I just want you to know that.” Your eyes met hers in the doorway, she nodded, going to walk from the house goodbyes already said. 

“If you want to have dinner again,” You said, “Just give us a call.” Linda nodded, stepping from the porch. 

“I will.” 

Ransom’s kids were so much better than he ever was. He’d say it once, he’d say it again. They were all you. Thank god. Henry was compassionate, Nate was sensitive, Charlie was loyal. The three of them traipsed through school getting mostly decent grades, Henry and Nate being honor roll and Charlie skating by with mostly B’s and C’s. Henry became obsessed with art, he showed talent in writing. He began writing little short stories that Ransom would get bound and set with a hardcover. Nate joined band and soon began playing the cello with Julia’s help. 

The now college graduate working at the publishing house, returned home for a little bit to save up for her own place. Not that Ransom wouldn’t buy her one, she wanted to do it on her own. He’d already paid for her entire education after all.

And Charlie loved sports. She tried soccer, basketball, softball, cheerleading, volleyball. If it was considered a sport she wanted in. That being said the schedule in the Drysdale household became an orchestration of one parent dropping a kid off at practice and another picking up a kid from a friends house and all three kids sitting around the kitchen island doing homework while one or both parents cooked dinner.

The domesticity that flowed through the house was a comfort to Ransom. It was something he’d never felt in his own home growing up and was proud that he’d been able to offer it to his own kids. Their protests of disgust as he kissed you a little too passionately. The slow dancing to music that wasn’t there while he was loading the dishwasher. The bedtime routine that was his favorite part because the only one who still needed help was Charlie and that’s only because she would always forget to brush her teeth.

The after bed routine was still his favorite part of the whole day. When the house quieted and it got to be just the two of you. He watched you get ready for bed. Removing your makeup, he watched you wash your face, brush your teeth and work a serum into your skin. You’d changed into a soft cotton night dress, one he’d planned on taking off of you, very soon. 

He’d watched as you rub lotion into your legs. The two of you just enjoying the rare silence that hardly ever happened in this home anymore. A kid wasn’t yelling at another kid. No one was playing an instrument. A kid wasn’t kicking a soccer ball against the side of the house. And no one was screaming that it was their turn on the tv. 

It bubbled up from his chest before he could help it. “Thank you.” Your eyes met his questioningly. 

“For?” You smirked as you switched legs. Ransom sunk down to his knees in front of you, hands on your knees, halting your movements.

“For everything,” he pressed a kiss to your knee. “You’re the reason I have all of this. This home, these kids, you… I love you so much and I know I tell you that all the time, but I owe everything in my life to you. I don’t know how I could ever make up for the things I’ve done, and the man I was, but I try every day to be a good person. I try everyday to be a good husband and a good Father… I just…” His eyes wet with tears, 

“You’ve given me so much and I don’t know if I could ever give you as much as you’ve given me. The children you grew in your belly. The compassion. The empathy. The forgiveness I didn’t deserve. You always believed I could be better, that I could do better. You saw me better than I ever was or ever will be. I just want to say thank you, for everything you’ve done for me in the last fifteen years and thank you for everything you’ll do for the rest of our lives.

“The family that you’ve given me, the love that you’ve given me…” A soft kiss against your lips, salty with tears. 

“Thank you for being the woman I get to love.”


End file.
